


Grand Arcanum

by The-Immortal-Moon (LunaKat)



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fullmetal Alchemist 2003/Brotherhood Fusion, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Canon Rewrite, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2019-06-13 02:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 231,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15354339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaKat/pseuds/The-Immortal-Moon
Summary: It’s the same story you all know.Brothers Edward and Alphonse tragically lose their bodies in a failed attempt at human transmutation. Now, they partner with their childhood friend, Winry, and scour Amestris in search of the Philosopher’s Stone.(Multiple Character Roleswap, '03/Brotherhood blend)





	1. City of Heresy

**Author's Note:**

> Yes. I know. Boring author's note. But please, resist the urge to skip so I can give a quick explanation.
> 
> This is a roleswap of multiple characters with a blend of '03 and Brotherhood canon, mixed in with a few original plot elements. Expect deviations from the canon and some changes in backstories.
> 
> I'm mostly posting this right now to see if anyone's interested. If there are any questions, please feel free to ask. I'll answer anything that isn't too spoilery.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Arc I—Icarus**
> 
> _There was once the story of a young man named Icarus. He was golden and free and dutiful, the apple of his brilliant father’s eye. When he spread his wings to take flight, the sky swallowed him with its infinite possibilities. For a time, he knew no limit, and the common sense that once pervaded his mind abandoned him in favor of the elation that was the wind in his face._
> 
> _But the sun is a merciless being who looked at the careless arrogance with which Icarus flew and cared not for the kindness of his heart. Even the best of intentions, after all, cannot shield you from the relentless heat of its rays. The wax binding the feathers of his wings began to melt and soon they lost the capability to fly. He yelped and screamed and struggled and thrashed, but it did not slow his descent. After all, all the struggling in the world cannot save you from your fate._
> 
> _A crimson stain bloomed across the sea’s surface where he fell._

  _“It is an ironic habit of human beings to run faster when we have lost our way.”  
_ —Rollo May

 

“I have decided,” growls the boy, hood pulled up over his head and forehead slick with perspiration that plasters his dark bangs to his cheeks, “that I fucking _hate_ the desert.”

The city of Liore unfolds around them, cobblestone streets and buildings carved from stubborn stone. Tall, boxy constructions made for withstanding the elements. Heat blisters down from the burning sun, and the sky is a stunning, endlessly cloudless blue that only the desert can achieve. Each weary step sends a puff of displaced sand into the air—it’s a miracle they haven’t started coughing yet, or even inhaled any sand. Doesn’t anyone sweep the damn streets? They should sweep the damn streets.

“You’re overreacting, Brother.” A massive suit of armor trails after him with a rhythmic shuffle-clank-clank of steady footsteps. The helmet inclines subtly downwards, and the dark spaces of the eyeholes are occupied by a muted red glow. “And you shouldn’t say that. It’s disrespectful.”

“Because the desert has _feelings_?” the boy grouses. A suitcase swings like a pendulum at his side, one white-gloved hand gripping the handle while the other absently brushes sand off his leather pants.

“No,” answers the armor in a voice that is startlingly young. “But you’re insulting everyone who lives in the desert.”

 _Including our ancestors_ , hangs tacitly in the air.

The boy huffs.

“Just leave him be, Al,” says the girl that shuffles after them. A tan shawl drapes her shoulders to protect her fair complexion from burning beneath the sun. Already, her arms are pinkening from exposure and freckles have begun to dust her cheeks. “Ed’s just grouchy because he doesn’t have any heat tolerance.”

“I have heat tolerance!” the boy snaps. He hunches his shoulders with a scowl, jaw clenched stubbornly. “I’m just wearing long sleeves, dammit.”

She heaves a sigh, but doesn’t argue.

They continue their weary ambling down the street and earn a number of curious glances for their trouble. It is rare for Liore to have visitors, much less visitors as eccentric as this. A boy with sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose and a painfully petite build nearly swallowed by an oversized ankle-length scarlet coat. A gunmetal-grey suit of armor that reaches nearly seven feet in height with a fluttering white loincloth and a ghostly glimmer in the dark recesses of its helmet. A girl with multiple silver piercings that glitter in her ears and a long blonde ponytail telling of someone from the greener countryside.

The sound of rushing water makes the boy pause, then backtrack, eyes growing wide behind dark lenses. As it turns out, the source is a fountain, oddly elaborate in contrast to the plain, sturdy architecture. On account of his sunglasses, he can’t see the color of the liquid that spurts out in a fabulous display—but his mouth is dry as sand and he doesn’t care.

He immediately makes for the fountain. “Water! Hah, our luck’s turnin’ around!”

But his companions do not have tinted lenses, and so they can see that the liquid isn’t clear and sparkling the way water should.

“Ed—” the girl starts.

There’s no need. The boy notices, at the last minute, that something’s off about the fountain—the smell of it is wrong, sharper and reminiscent of shoe polish. His excited gait slows to a halt in front of it and a pensive frown emerges to replace his grin. Brows furrowing, he leans forward a little to peer down into the pool, using one hand to grip the rim for balance.

The scent is overpoweringly strong up close. It reminds him of a bar, for some reason. Reminds him of soldiers that show up to Eastern Command groggy and squinting and complaining of loud noise.

_What the...?_

“Hey! Get away from there!” A rough hand grasps the boy’s hood and yanks it back, the long spill of his braid tumbling free. He gives a yelp as he’s pulled back, then turns to glare at the man responsible—stern-faced, with a dark mustache that makes it look as though he’s perpetually scowling and a bandanna tied around his balding head. “Tryin’ to sneak a drink, were you?”

Before he can muster a response, his companions join him. “Sir,” the armor says, trying to sound plaintive, “you’ll have to forgive him—we just came from the desert, you see.”

“If you could possibly tell us where to find some water,” the girl adds, purposefully making her voice hoarser than it is to earn sympathy.

The man casts a considering look between the boy and his companions, then releases his hold on the boy’s hood. “Yeah, okay. Come with me.” 

* * *

“Sorry about earlier,” the man—owner of a nearby restaurant, as it turns out—says brightly. He’s polishing dishes and trying his damnedest not to make it too obvious that he’s staring, but he sucks at subtly and Ed meets the totally-unsubtle curiosity with a defiant, half-lidded stare. “Didn’t realize you were out-of-towners.”

 _Sure,_ Ed wants to say, can practically feel the sarcasm bubbling on his tongue. _That’s not totally implausible. It’s not like there are people in red coats and suits of armor walking around here all the fucking time. We **totally** blend into the populace!_

But he can feel Al leveling him with his strongest _behave_ glare, so he bites the retort down and just sips from his glass of ice water. The cold of it is a sharp, biting thing that knifes its way down his throat, but it’s a welcome blessing after hours and hours of trudging through the desert, collecting sand in places where sand ought not to be collected. He can practically feel it in his automail, clogging up the gears and the joints and the hydraulics. Winry’s gonna give him shit, he just knows it.

Speaking of Winry, she keeps glancing at the fountain out of the corner of her eye. At the very least, she’s subtler about that than the owner’s inquisitive scrutinization. But she’s troubled, he can tell—the lines of her shoulder blades are far too tense.

“Sir,” she starts, peering up from her plate of hot food that’s probably boiled cactus and deep-fried armadillo, “if I may—why is there even a fountain of wine in the middle of the town?”

Mr. Mustache, as Ed has mentally taken to calling him, sets the freshly-cleaned plates aside, then drops a few things down on the stove behind him. Things that sizzle and tease his hunger and make Ed turn his attention greedily back to the meal in front of him. “Oh, that? That there’s a gift from Father Cornello to the town. He made that almost as soon as he arrived.”

“Father Cornello” brings to mind various testimonies that the colonel collected and then presented to Ed in a very official-looking manila folder, along with a printed copy of the official orders. Complete with a government-notarized stamp and a template with which to fill out his paperwork. Once again reminding him why he despises the colonel. He knows how to fill out the damn paperwork. He isn’t a fucking three-year-old.

“Father Cornello” also has the other patrons sitting at the counter perking up. Most of them, natives by the look of it, give appreciative murmurs and a few mumbled prayers, by the sound of it. Ed tries to ignore them as best he can, but one catches his attention—a woman with skin far too pale to belong to a native. A fringe of dark curls peeks out from beneath her hood, and she sips daintily from a glass of water held in a dark-gloved hand.

A frown pinches his face as she catches his eye. Her lacquered berry lips curl into a thin, chilling smile.

He looks away with a grunt.

Surreptitiously, Al slides his plate and drink over to Ed. The action does not go unnoticed by the owner, who arches a quizzical brow. Al only shrugs. “He needs it more than I do.”

Oh, the guilt that those words elicit. It is all Ed can do not to choke and splutter, and it’s almost enough to make him lose his appetite.

Winry, bless her heart, notices the shift and is quick to intervene. “Um, Mr—”

“Marsh,” the man supplies. He turns and begins tending to the things on his stove. Ed catches sight of what he’s ninety-percent sure is a lizard hanging off the wall, and looks down at his own plate dubiously. “Emmet Marsh.”

Mr. Mustache suits him better, in Ed’s opinion.

“Mr. Marsh.” Winry turns her head to face the fountain in the center of the square while Ed finishes his glass of cold water and then moves to drink Al’s. He so damn thirsty. “Father Cornello—who is he?”

They already know, of course, but Winry likes to do recon. Which is basically just talking to the locals and compiling information that wasn’t in the file already. Ed thinks it’s a waste of time, but occasionally it does turn up useful things, so. Yeah.

A flicker of something reverent crosses Marsh’s face as he turns back to them. “He’s the head of the Church of Leto, you see. And current governor of Liore. That fountain was created as a personal symbol of friendship from the Church.”

That statement only spurs more questions than it answers. Ed arches a brow.

“A fountain that spews wine, though?” Winry has hands that grow nervous and fidgety when they sit still too long, so she occupies them with cutting into her meat-that-may-be-armadillo. “Doesn’t that seem just a bit wasteful?”

“Hardly!” Marsh flashes a grin as he tends to the stove. The smell of cooking things wafts from it as grease sizzles around meats of questionable source and eggs from everything but a chicken. Again, Ed is persuaded to steal a dubious look at his own plate. “If it ever runs out, Father Cornello can just turn more water into wine.”

Ed stops, fork poised before his open mouth.

“Water into wine,” Al repeats, equal parts incredulous and curious. “...you’re kidding.”

Marsh seems to find this amusing, of all things, and gives a hearty chuckle. “Nope! That’s actually how the fountain was made in the first place. See, Father Cornello—he’s a prophet of God. He can perform miracles.”

Slowly, Ed sets his fork down and leans back. Water into wine, huh? He’s vaguely aware that there’s a verse in some holy book or something, somewhere, that alludes to that idea, but he’s never cared for that. He’s more concerned about the matter of chemical compositions.

 _At first glance, it seems like a valid idea_ , he thinks, placing his chin in his hand. _But if you understand the chemistry of it, it’s just impossible! Water is a substance composed of two elements, whereas wine is vastly more complex. There’s the actual grapes, the alcohol content, the tannin—at least, I think there’s something called “tannin” involved. I’ll have to ask Falman about it later... Anyway, it’s bypassing the Law of Natural Providence! And not just bypassing it—fucking it sidewise and then leaving it to die in a ditch._

While Ed leans back in contemplation, Winry leans forward with intrigue. He can’t tell if she’s genuinely interested, or only feigning it for the sake of conversation. “Miracles, you say?”

“Oh yeah.” The voice that speaks comes to the left, and they turn to see a group of men coming over, all of them desert-browned and sturdy-looking. “Before Father Cornello came, this place was desolate! But then he brought with him the word of the Sun-God, Leto, and now the town is blessed with wealth.”

“Right!” adds a second, rather enthusiastically. “All thanks to him, we’re thriving, and we have the Sun-God to thank! Praise Leto!”

A third man leans forward, an odd intensity in his dark eyes. “You wouldn’t happen to be pilgrims by any chance, would you?”

“I’m an atheist.” Ed stands, a little sharply. His bullshit meter is reaching its limit, thanks, and if he doesn’t leave now, he’s going to say something he’ll regret later. Or punch someone. Preferably in the nose. “C’mon, guys. We should get going.”

Winry looks like she wants to protest, but Al seems to understand Ed’s growing irritation and only gives a mute nod. “Okay,” he says, and there’s a great creaking as he rises—

And then the top of helmet bangs against the roof. A radio topples down a moment later, crashing to the ground. Marsh lets out a cry of dismay. The other patrons at the bar perk up in alarm. The pale woman only sips her water slowly.

“...oops,” Al manages, looking down sheepishly at the broken radio. Well, as sheepish as can be managed by a suit of armor, but still.

“Now look what you’ve done!” Marsh stares down at the busted contraption with a groan. “What’re you even doing, walkin’ around in that armor anyway, huh?”

It’s only by the grace of Winry placing a hand on Ed’s shoulder that he doesn’t sock Marsh in the face.

“Don’t worry, we’ll fix it,” she says immediately, gaze flicking warily over at Ed.

Marsh frowns at her, then scowls down at his radio. “Fix it? It’s smashed to hell!”

“I’ll do it,” Al says just as Winry opens her mouth. When she huffs, feigning offense, Ed’s poor, gullible little brother actually buys the act and sends her a guilty look. “Or, you could—”

“No, no.” Winry waves a hand dismissively, even though the stiffness of her smile says that she is offended and will probably find a way to get back at them later in a subtle, crafty way. It always annoys her when they don’t consider her for this sort of thing. “You’re professionals. Go ahead and handle it, Al.”

“ _You’re_ the one who said she wanted to focus on automail,” Ed reminds her. “‘Oh, alchemy’s just a hobby for me! You guys can run around tracing circles out of chalk and I’m gonna go learn _practical_ skills’.”

“I _don’t_ sound like that,” she snaps. But yes, she does. Ed’s impression is spot-on. He’s great at impressions. You should hear his version of Mr. Hughes. “And I can still take pride in a hobby, can’t I?”

“Sure you can. But don’t get pissed at _us_ because _you_ think of it as ‘just a hobby’.”

Her left brow twitches at the tip. “You are veering dangerously close to wrench territory, buster.”

The only reason he shuts up after that is because he can see how much this is starting to upset her. Not because of the wrench. Nope. Not at all. He’s not scared of her, dammit.

Al looks between them awkwardly. “I’m just gonna... yeah.”

“Whatever,” Winry huffs, crossing her arms.

People are staring. Ed rolls his eyes and works on tuning them all out.

Meanwhile, Al kneels down and begins tracing out a transmutation circle around the broken radio with a piece of chalk in hand. Chalk that he stores in the crouch-area, despite Ed’s protests. They could easily sew a pocket in his loincloth, but nope, apparently not. The array that Al traces is designed specifically for the reparation of metallic components, by the look of it. Ed might have added a little more strength to the center than the rim, but that would mean actually picking up the radio and moving it, and it’s not like it won’t still work.

“Okay,” Al says once he’s finished. The private audience watches his actions with a bewildered fascination, but they back up a little once Al rises to his full seven-foot-height. “Can everyone stand back a little?”

Al activates the array, and Ed allows himself to smirk as the air flares with blue light and the dry ozone smell of transmutation. The radio is quick to knit itself back together, dented pieces straightening out and broken things rapidly reassembling. When the light fades, it’s just like it was before—better, actually, because it looks brand new, instead of all dusty and beaten-up like it did before.

“How’s that?” Al asks, turning to Marsh.

It’s all Ed can do not to cackle at the man’s dumbfounded expression, his bug eyes and his slack jaw. Let it never be said that small towns aren’t amusing, no matter how stupidly ignorant they tend to be.

Winry still has a rather sulky pout about her. “I could’ve done that.”

“You totally would’ve gone for the wrench first,” he says, because it’s totally true. She is, first and foremost, a gearhead.

She sniffs.

Ugh. Damn gearhead. “You can get the next one! _Geez_.”

While not completely mollified, this does seem to make her a little less upset. He considers that a small victory.

“You,” Marsh starts, then stops, blinking dumbly. Despite the initial amusement, the guy’s bewilderment is starting to grow less and less funny, the longer it goes on.

Then one of the men chimes, “You’re emissaries of Leto!”

And then it’s _really_ not funny.

Ed stares at him flatly as he tries to comprehend the sheer stupidity of that statement. “Come again?”

“It’s good as new!” says another man, completely missing the point.

Another exclaims, “Gosh, you guys should have said earlier that you could perform miracles!”

...the fuck?

The utter stupidity is short-circuiting Ed’s brain and he can’t even muster the sense to formulate a response. Thankfully, that’s what Winry is for—having sense when he doesn’t.

“It’s not a miracle,” she explains with more patience than Ed, even on a good day, can muster. “Ed and Al are both alchemists.” When the crowd only rewards her efforts in diplomacy with bewildered looks, she sighs, and evidently decides to pull out the big guns. “They’re... sort of famous, actually. Ever heard of the brothers Hohenheim?”

Oh, _hell_ yes. Recognition sparks across their faces, which is fantastic, because Ed really needs a pick-me-up right now. Hearing all the awesome things people say about him will definitely do.

“Hohenheim?” repeats Marsh, deliciously befuddled. He turns his gaze to Ed and Al, newfound wonder in his eyes. “Like Edward Hohenheim?”

“The State Alchemist,” says the woman. She sets the glass in her hand down harder than it needs to be. The clink of it is unnecessarily loud. “Fullmetal Alchemist, they call him. Hero of the People.”

Ed frowns again. Does she know him? It sounds like she knows him. But he’s good with faces, and hers doesn’t seem like one he’d forget so easily—a sharply angled jaw and sculpted cheekbones and thick lashes that veil her eyes.

All around them, the crowd of men let out cries of recognition and admiration. Ed’s reservations about the strange woman evaporate in the face of this new wave of appreciation directed his way. There are exclamations of “I’ve heard of him!” and “He and his brother travel around, helpin’ people, right?” and “Isn’t he, like, super famous?”. Oh, yeah, _there_ it is. That’s the ticket.

Winry rolls her eyes, because she’s just jealous that she doesn’t have a reputation that proceeds her the way his does. Let’s face it—good deeds are rewarding, true, but it’s way better when there’s someone there to tell you how awesome you are.

Unlike Ed, the attention makes Al uncomfortable, and he gives a nervous little chuckle. “Yeah, that’s us—the brothers Hohenheim.”

_Here it comes—_

“And I guess they call you ‘Fullmetal’ ‘cause of that armor, right?” asks one of the men.

_—what?_

To his utter dismay, it’s Al that the crowd congregates around instead of him, which is irritating for two reasons. The first is that their gazes are filled with wonder and amazement and reverence, all of which should be aimed at him, but aren’t, and that’s _totally_ not fair. The second is that Al looks absolutely uncomfortable being the object of said attention, and the big brother instinct in Ed is tempted to start shoving people just to give Al some fucking breathing room.

“I can’t believe it!”

“I mean, you hear so much about this guy, and then you actually _meet_ him? How awesome is that?”

“And he’s so _tall_ , too!”

A vein in Ed’s forehead twitches. He has to take a deep breath and remind himself that Al being called tall does not, in any way, mean they’re calling him—not tall. Just, less tall. Yes. Slightly less tall. Breathe.

It does not help that Winry is doing a spectacular job at failing to hide her laughter. Some of the men peer at her in bewilderment, but she just laughs harder.

“N-No, no.” Al holds his leather-gauntlet hands out in a sheepish fashion. His helmet may not be expressive, but he sure as hell is. “Not me. I’m the _younger_ brother, Alphonse Hohenheim. _That’s_ my big brother over there.”

In eerie synchronization that cannot be anything but choreographed, the crowd turns to Ed, every face etched with enough disbelief to make his blood boil. It’s not the first time Al’s been mistaken for him, and he is well aware that armor is ten-times more eye-catching than his bright red coat and iconic symbol. Apparently, red coats and Flamel symbols aren’t noteworthy. That’s not the point. The point is, he’s the famous one, and is it really too much for a little goddamn recognition? Oh, no, it’s not like he’s breaking his back doing shit for people. Nope. Not at all. Just your average—

“You mean the runt over there?”

That tears it.

“WHO’RE YOU CALLIN’ A PINT-SIZED SHRIMP?”

He lunges at the same time Winry’s arms clamp down on his waist. “Ed! For Pete’s sake!”

“Lemme go!” Fucking hell, she’s strong. Must come from working with heavy tools and machinery for a living. Her grip is like an iron clamp, because it does not falter even when he writhes and twists. “My honor’s been insulted!”

A growl rumbles in her throat, one that is just as much aggression as it is effort. “You can’t just punch people who piss you off!”

“Winry,” Al deadpans, because he’s an _awesome_ little brother, “you threatened Brother with your wrench not _two_ minutes ago.”

Winry’s grip goes slack. It’s enough for Ed to struggle free—but the urge to throttle idiots is replaced by the urge to throw his head back laughing. She’s flustered, somewhere between furious and horrified, with her jaw slack and her eyes wide and her face bright red. It’s _hysterical_. “T-That’s not—”

It is all Ed can do to suppress a wicked cackle. “Hypocrisy’s a good color on you, Win.”

“S-Shut up!” Her jaw shuts with an audible click, but her glare doesn’t have the heat behind it that it usually does. “Or the next wrench goes through your skull!”

“Pot, kettle,” he tuts, grinning. The world is so much brighter when he has the upper hand—literally brighter.

“Brother, you’re _way_ worse,” Al scolds. “Remember that time when you had to face a bunch of terrorists in Bluehaven, and then you blew up—”

The betrayal has Ed balking. “Who’s side’re you _on_ , Al?”

“—a building,” Al finishes in a deadpan.

People are sending him mildly horrified looks, but it’s _completely_ out of context. “I didn’t _blow it up_ —”

“Yes,” Winry chirps, smug, “you did.”

Technically, he collapsed it. _Big_ difference. But he can tell he’s not going to win this fight, so he settles for crossing his arms with a huff. “Yeah? Well—fuck you both!”

“You know,” Marsh says, wary, but less so than the rest of the crowd (he probably feels safer because of the counter there to shield him—which is hilarious, because Ed has destroyed more counters in his career than he can count), “a lot of them rumors call you ‘scary’. I think I get it now.”

“At least they’re accurate,” Ed says with a shrug.

Al just sighs.

The pale woman takes a long, slow sip of her water.

Marsh leans in a little, one elbow propped up against the counter and his chin resting on his knuckles. He isn’t bothering to be subtle about his curiosity, or his wariness. “You ain’t planning on breakin’ anything in Liore, are you?”

Ed raises a hand to shield his eyes, because the sun is suddenly burning against his corneas. Weird. “No promises.”

“It’s not our intention,” Al intervenes before people can be properly horrified. “Believe me, the only time property damage comes into play is when we’re in really intense fights.”

“Which we avoid if we can,” Winry adds, then sends a pointed look at Ed.

Okay, yes, he doesn’t have the best track record, but—dammit, that’s not his fault! ... _most_ of the time. He mutters under his breath in a language he knows Winry won’t understand.

Predictably, she blinks, then turns to Al in askance. Al looks first at Winry, then at Ed, then shifts his gaze away in an almost sheepish manner. “It’s... probably better if I don’t translate that.”

Winry scoffs.

A hum from Marsh interrupts their conversation. “So what’re you here for, then?”

“Looking for something,” Ed says evasively. It’s an automatic response.

“Such as?” There’s something strangely guarded in the man’s tone, and he directs his gaze at Al. It’s eerie, almost like he knows something. Ed bristles in anticipation.

Al’s helmet turns to shoot a nervous look at Ed and Winry, because even without the ability to visibly emote, Al is a fucking terrible liar. “Um...”

Before Al can formulate a proper response, or at least something that resembles a proper response, the radio crackles to life—and everyone stops what they’re doing.

Just, stops.

Ed watches the unfolding transformation with something between rapt fascination and apprehension. People from the desert are meant to be sturdy, hardy and resilient. There’s just something about spending your life under the blistering sun and enduring biting nocturnal chills that tends to harden you, that makes you clamp up like an oyster. It’s a natural side-effect, Ed supposes, of living in such a harsh environment. The world is tough, so you have to be tougher. He knows that his people—the people of Xerxes, back when the place was more than just desolate ruins slowly sinking into the Great Desert—were the same. At least, according to the stories he heard as a child.

But as the radio speaker crackles around (presumably) Father Cornello’s words (which are smooth like olive oil, Ed notes, or perhaps snake-oil is a better description), their faces change. They lose that natural hardness, become soft and light and relaxed. They open up, like the blooming of a cactus flower after the rains.

Or like an oyster so that someone can steal the soft innards and jealously-guarded pearl.

It’s really fucking unnerving.

With Marsh so enraptured by the broadcast, the eggs are left unattended. Ed casts them a peripheral glance, absently taking note of how smoke curls off the sizzling whites and how dark color is encroaching on the edges, how they are beginning to give off a bitter odor—

_Dad is leaned over the counter, glasses sliding off his nose as he peers down over Al’s shoulder, loose hair that hasn’t been contained by his messy high ponytail falling over his face. There’s an easy smile on his face as he chides Al about misspelled words and there’s gentle scolding about how Al really shouldn’t be chewing the eraser end of his pencil. Which Ed has told him not to do almost a dozen times now, not that his brother ever listens. Honestly. What’s even the point of being the oldest?_

_As discreetly as he can, Ed deposits two brown paper bags onto the counter, marked with their names in clean, clear writing. It’s normally the adult’s job to make lunches, but they’re running late and Dad is all but oblivious to the world most of the time, so he steps up when he can. He climbs down the stool he has to grudgingly use just to peer over the lip of the counter—six years old, he only comes up to Dad’s knees, but he’s still growing and he’s gonna be just as tall as Dad, if not taller! Chancing a look at the stove, he notes the pan where the eggs are frying, where the smell is growing acrid and the steam is deepening into smoke._

_But again, Dad is all but oblivious to the world. He’s too busy consoling Al, who has just thrown his pencil aside in frustration and declared that spelling is stupid._

_It’s times like this that social niceties are suspended. “Dad, the eggs are burning.”_

_Blinking, Dad looks up from Al’s homework. It takes him a while to notice Ed at his side, and peers down in bemusement, as if he’d completely forgotten Ed was there. Probably had—the man has a talent for forgetting things. “What was that, son?”_

_“The eggs are burning,” Ed repeats._

_A handful of moments pass as Dad’s expression shifts and he processes that statement. Then he blinks at the eggs, which are, in fact, burning. The moment it clicks, there’s a flare of panic and alarm on his father’s face. Ed watches with a dull sense of amusement as Dad stumbles over his own feet, nearly falling flat on his face as he makes his way over to the stove. He fumbles with the dials for a while before receiving a chirp that signals his success in having turned it off._

_Al gives a lopsided smile and Ed rolls his eyes as their father heaves a colossal sigh and hangs his head in relief. Ed is almost tempted to rub it in, to triumphantly point out the fact that he is far more observant than an adult. But they are running late, so, it will have to wait._

_“I took care of lunch already,” Ed informs him dutifully, pointing to the paper bags he places on the counter. “We really need to eat, Dad, or we’re gonna be late.”_

_Dad turns to him, blinking in bewilderment for a good long moment. Then he sighs again, this time lighter and accompanied by a smile that punches faint dimples in his cheeks (not that you can see very well through the golden fuzz of stubble where a beard is growing in). Releasing a chuckle as light and warm as butter, he drops to his knees and rests a strong calloused hand on Ed’s head. “What would I do without you?”_

_Selfish and oblivious to what he has, Ed ducks away before his father can ruffle his hair._ _“Burn the house down.”_

_The bright, booming laugh Dad gives fills the whole kitchen, the whole house. Ed grins in spite of himself, Al joins in on the laughter with his own little giggle, and it’s **perfect**. Everything about it, from the laughter to the constant tickle in his mind that reminds how they’re going to be late. Can you really blame him, then, for wanting to bring it all back—_

“Hey Mr. Marsh,” Ed says dully. Marsh turns to him, blinking as though awakening from a dream. “Your eggs are burning.”

Marsh straightens in alarm and glances over his shoulder. Realizing that the eggs _are_ burning, he curses and is quick to grab a spatula. Once the eggs have been saved from further ruin, he sighs in relief. “Thanks, kid.”

Eggs burn and it is not a big deal. Ed nods, not because he doesn’t trust himself to respond, but because it is not a big deal. He can feel Winry and Al both watching him out of the corner of their eyes, Winry with concern and Al with sympathy.

Eggs burn all the fucking time.

He catches the woman watching him, analytic eyes beneath a veil of thick lashes. What is her fucking _deal_?

Before he can contemplate the matter further, he picks up on the sound of footsteps and turns. The source is a girl, older than him by a couple years at best, approaching them with a jaunty spring to her step. Her face is deep olive, desert-browned like the rest of the Liori people, and her hair cascades past her shoulders in pools of dark chocolate. Everything about her is plain, from her mildly pretty face to her unpatterned dress—the only thing that really catches his eye is her bangs, bubble-gum pink and framing a pair of dark eyes.

“Good morning Mr. Marsh,” the girl chirps. There’s a cloth satchel hanging off her shoulder, and it’s full of all sorts of food items—flour, milk, water, a few vegetables, and flowers. Flowers. Desert flowers, granted, but, still. They seem weirdly out of place compared to the rest of the contents.

“Morning Rosé.” Marsh greets her casually, but Ed is too busy wondering if he’s talking about the same “rosé” as the type of wine, or if that’s just the girl’s name. And if so, who the hell would name their kid after wine. “Headed to the Church again?”

“Uh huh!” It’s only after she gives an excited nod that she noticed them, the trio of definitely-not-locals. He frowns as he watches her face grow blank with puzzlement, and then a guarded wariness. “Oh. Hello.”

“Hello,” Winry says pleasantly. She smiles in a manner that is meant to charm just about anyone, and the day it doesn’t work is the day Ed wears purple. _Purple_. She holds her hand out to shake. “I know this is a little odd for me to say to a stranger, but you have such a lovely town! Me and my friends have traveled around and seen so many places—but none of them had a fountain of wine right in the plaza!”

It’s subtle, and therein lies the craftiness—explaining that they’re travelers without outright saying, while also complimenting the town to make her feel at ease. Al calls it manipulative. Ed calls it genius.

Rosé is instantly disarmed (of course she is, Ed would dare anyone to look at Winry’s pretty smile and not immediately feel the need to smile back), and tentatively accepts the handshake. “Well, I’m so glad to hear that. We don’t get a lot of visitors.”

Pointedly, the woman finishes her glass of water and sets it back down, pushing it further across the counter. Ed notices the length of her arm as she does so. Her gloves are peculiar, even without the scarlet lines that streak across the black fabric. Who wears long gloves like that?

Well... he probably isn’t one to talk, with his coat and all. But. Still.

Al uses this time to kneel down and scoop up the radio, which he then sets on Marsh’s counter. Marsh shoots him a grateful look, but Ed’s idle attention is more focused on the crowd of men and their growing boldness. They are all significantly warier than before ( _as they should be_ , Ed thinks, sniffing), and have scarcely scraped up the courage to lean forward a little to better observe the events. He is tempted to growl, or feign lunging, just to see their reaction, but that would really go a long ways in undermining Winry’s current efforts at making them look nonthreatening.

“That’s such a shame,” she goes on, ever the actress. You’d never guess, with how often she’s covered in machine oil, but she’s good with people. “We—me, Ed, and Al here—came all this way after hearing all these amazing stories about the priest here.”

At the mention of the priest, Rosé’s face lights up like the dawn sky. It makes Ed want to gag. “Really?”

“Oh yeah!” Winry’s grin stretches wide, but it doesn’t quite light her eyes. “We’ve traveled a long way _just_ to meet him.”

The file flashes through Ed’s mind again, and his heart quickens a little. Desperation, fear, hope—he’s not quite sure anymore. All of them sort of blend together at this point.

Puzzlement surfaces on Rosé’s face, and she peers over Winry’s shoulder to take in the brothers. Ed can feel her dark eyes tracing his ungainly scarlet coat, the long sleeves unsuited for the desert, the braided length of his “dark” hair. He can feel her taking in Al’s hulking form, and while Al is masterful at concealing whatever discomfort he might feel, it is all Ed can do not to bristle on his brother’s behalf.

She blinks at them. “Are you street performers?”

Winry snorts her amusement and claps a hand over her mouth.

“Do we _look_ like street performers?” Ed grumbles. He’s not sure why he’s insulted. It’s actually a good cover. He should use it later.

The woman rises to her full height. The cloak drapes her form enough that he can only subtly make out the feminine curves of her body, though he glimpses inky black beneath the thick tan curtain. With one hand, she swipes dark waves out of her face, then turns to him with something almost like a challenge in her eyes. She is only looking in his general direction, surely, but Ed gets the distinct impression that it’s aimed at him.

Strangely unperturbed by his crassness, Rosé only gives a minute shrug. “Well, I wouldn’t ask if you didn’t.”

“They say they’re alchemists,” Marsh chimes in. Ed refuses to express gratitude. “The runt there is sorta famous.”

“I AM NOT—”

Winry claps her hands together suddenly. The sharp smack of her palms cuts him off. “Say, miss, you wouldn’t be willing to show us to the Church of Leto, would you?”

Seemingly oblivious to Ed’s glare, Rosé smiles softly. “Of course! Come with me.”

She starts off in some direction, her gait still jaunty. Al looks at Ed, who shrugs and looks at Winry. Winry looks back, shrugs in return, and follows after Rosé. Al looks at Ed again, then follows Winry.

“Hey,” comes a voice from behind Ed. It’s a deep, smoky sort of sound, something dark and vaguely destructive, like the act of spilling red wine all over cashmere. “Fullmetal boy.”

A throb of irritation goes through him at the word “boy”. Ed turns sharply with a retort on his tongue, but it shrivels up and dies a moment later.

His sunglasses are perched delicately in the woman’s long, elegant fingers. Her hood spills over her face, so he cannot make out her eyes, only the curl of her smile and the glint of too-white teeth she’s dared to show.

Horror lands a cold kiss against his temple and his heart leaps to his throat. Fuck. When did they come off—

She holds them out in a manner that is far too careless to be an offering. “I believe these are yours.”

Trying not to let show the panic starting to churn in his gut, Ed snatches them out of her hand. She doesn’t seem to mind his brusqueness, only tilts her face a little downward so that he can properly make out her eyes.

“You have nicely-colored eyes,” she says. And her own twinkle back at him with all the coldness of stars, if stars were a startlingly vivid shade of violet-red that look like amethysts dipped in fresh blood. They pierce like daggers, or spears, or something else that entirely bypasses the flesh in search of the soul. There is an almost predatory quality about them and a shiver runs down his spine. “Very unique. You shouldn’t hide them.”

“Thanks,” he manages numbly.

He swears that they are the only two people in the world, him and this woman with her piercing, vibrantly-colored irises. Mr. Marsh and the other customers are of no consequence, all but nonexistent at this point. The air is too thick to breathe.

Then she turns, and the tension breaks like a distant peel of thunder. “Well, it’s your decision, I suppose... Say, you’d better hurry and catch up with your friends.”

Nodding absently, he slips the sunglasses on and darts off. His pulse is pounding in his ears and it really shouldn’t be, because the woman is completely normal and he’s overreacting, right? Right.

He’s just imagining things.

* * *

The Church is a massive structure, far more elaborate and gothic than anything else in Liore. Winry doesn’t find it all that hard to believe that this building is the center of the town, both literally and figuratively. It towers up, parapets reaching to the sky like an old-fashioned castle. It’s form is pristinely white, almost fanciful, as the curve of the dome flirts with the sky, the point at the top spearing the atmosphere. When her gaze roves the massive windows, the stain-glass vectors catch the sun and nearly blind her.

She tries not to let herself consider how ominous that is.

Ed is surveying the exterior with unconcealed skepticism. He’s not religious, and that’s fine—for him. Other people might take offense. Al’s back is to her, so she’s not quite sure how he feels about the whole thing, though she suspects he is much less cynical of the whole idea, and perhaps a touch optimistic. It would be just like Al to expect the best of people.

“So what is it about Letoism that has everyone converting?” Winry knows about faith and desperation, knows how people turn to it when they feel like their lives are falling apart. It doesn’t matter if it’s God or some other force, people will submit themselves to it unhesitatingly and seek salvation. But—the people of Liore, while not thriving, don’t strike her as desperate or afraid, which raises a fresh slew of questions.

It seems she was successful in keeping her tone light, because Rosé turns to aim a smile over her shoulder. “What isn’t there to like? Leto watches over us, protects us, and when we fall, he can even bring us back!”

Winry does not miss how Ed misses a step. She almost does the same.

“Bring you back.” It is very, very difficult not to choke on the words, or glance at the brothers to gauge their reaction. “Like, from death?”

“That’s right.” And to make it even worse, Rosé grins.

Out of the corner of her eye, Winry watches Ed’s hands clench, watches Al’s shoulders hunch just a little. She herself feels the urge to grip Rosé’s shoulders and shake her, to scream in her face and ask how she could be so stupid to believe that.

But she doesn’t. Instead, she smiles, nice and pretty. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to know if there’s a place we can spend the night, do you?”

“Of course,” Rosé replies happily. “You can stay in the convent. It’s always open to those seeking the light of God.”

Again, Winry nods. But she’s too busy watching her friends to properly register, too busy thinking back to a stormy night four years ago and a flare of light in the distance and then a knock on the door—and everything just turning on it’s head.

* * *

“It’s fucked up,” Ed snarls once they are in the safety of their temporary room. Once they are concealed by four stone walls that do not watch and do not judge and, most of all, do not pray to false idols. He paces, bristling, wrestling with the urge to break something, anything, everything. “It’s fucking _twisted_.”

“Ed,” Winry says. She’s sitting on the bed, watching him with blue eyes that are wide and hollow like blown glass. Her hands are folded demurely on her lap, but her knuckles are white around where her fingers clench the fabric of her skirt.

His footsteps echo—particularly the left one. It clunks down hard against the floor, makes the whole room rattle. “Bringing back the dead. Bring back the _fucking dead_. That’s—I don’t _care_ who this guy is, he deserves a fist to the face!”

“Ed,” she says again, but her voice sounds like something on the verge of breaking. She worries her lower lip with her teeth.

But he doesn’t hear her. He can’t. He can’t hear anything but the roar of a storm that isn’t there and the boom of thunder and his own screaming as blood gushes hotly out from the space where his leg used to be. “It’s one thing, _one_ thing to call alchemy ‘miracles’ and claim it’s God or what the fuck _ever_ —but this is something _else_ entirely and—and— _fucking_ —”

The air feels too thick to breathe. Just like back then. Blood and decay and the ozone-smell of transmutation.

“ _Ed_.” And suddenly her hands are on his shoulders, the weight and warmth of them grounding against his frazzled nerves. He can feel her callouses through the sleeves of his shirt. Her eyes hover just a little above his, eyes that are so _blue_ , dark and turbulent and strikingly vivid. “I _know_.”

There is a protest burning in his throat. It rises up like a coil of smoke from the house they burned to the ground that crisp October night—but he sees the shadows flickering across her face, and the protest dies. She may not have been there when the light turned from resplendent golden to ominous violet, but she was there for the aftermath, and that’s enough.

So instead, he breathes in deep. Tries to think past the ringing in his ears and the throbbing roar of his pulse. Lowers his gaze to stare at the floor, at his mismatched feet.

Right. Getting worked up won’t solve anything. Getting _mad_ won’t solve anything. He can rage all he wants, but it won’t change what happened.

Seeing how he’s calmed down, she releases his shoulders and lets her arms fall. She smells like machine oil and sweat and wind over the desert. “I mean, I _get_ it. But you know as well as I do what grief does to a person. _Especially_ when they don’t know how to deal with it.”

The worst part is—he _does_ know. He knows how grief can make the world stop and how it can persuade you to cling to something so outrageous that if you were in a proper state of mind, you’d probably spit at yourself on disgust.

( _idiot, idiot, arrogant fool, our wings caught fire—_ )

“If this guy,” Ed says, trying his best to keep his tone neutral, “doesn’t having a fucking Stone, I’m storming into East Command and setting things on fire.”

“Ed—”

“ _On fire_ , Winry.”

Winry rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch into the phantom of a smile. It lightens her overall expression, and for a moment, the air doesn’t feel so thick.

“...am I interrupting?”

Ed jumps and whirls around to see Al bowed in the doorway, somehow looking very sheepish despite the expressionless helmet-face. He curses under his breath, because Al is supposed to be a loud, clunking thing (wait, no, not _supposed_ to be, but he is, and that’s the annoying part, the infuriating part, the part that keeps him awake at night) with footsteps that ring out and alert you when he’s getting close. Al doesn’t take people by surprise. Which means either Al has improbably found a way to make himself quieter (unlikely), or Ed is losing his once-prized sensory abilities.

“No.” Ed clears his throat and Winry wanders back over to the mattress. Al _isn’t_ interrupting. There’s nothing to interrupt. “So, uh, how did talking to the locals go?”

Al inclines his helmet, and he knows his brother well enough to know there’s going to an interrogation later. Fuck. “Well, it’s mostly just the same stuff we heard already—miracles, bringing back the dead, praise be to Leto. That sort of thing.”

He doesn’t care how cynical he sounds—Ed snorts. “These people are idiots.”

“It’s not like that.” There’s a note of something reproaching in Al’s tone that has Ed rolling his eyes. “They’re—it’s—there was a huge disaster a couple years ago, before Cornello showed up—”

This makes Winry perk up, face flashing with something between sympathy and alarm. “What kind of disaster?”

“A plague of some kind,” Al says, tone thick with sorrow. He probably had to talk to lots of people who’ve lost loved ones. Ed winces guiltily. “They’re still not sure what it was, even now. No cure, no explanation. People just, sort of, died. Sometimes with very few symptoms.”

Winry nods, like this all makes sense. Like this justifies people wanting to bring back the dead. “I guess that explains why they’re so eager to embrace something so...”

“Fundamentally opposed to the natural order?” Ed offers. It doesn’t matter what the justification is. It doesn’t _matter._ Because the natural order doesn’t _care_ about intent. Equivalent Exchange has _never_ cared about intent. It’s a numbers game. The equation either balances out, or it doesn’t, and when it doesn’t, things get ugly. “Yup. Totally. How are these people not stupid again?”

Both Al and Winry shoot him matching reproachful looks. “They’re desperate,” Winry corrects.

“Which _makes_ them stupid.”

For a moment, it looks like Al is going to retort, but then he notices something that makes him turn his helmet-head towards the window. With footsteps that clank loudly ( _now_ he makes noise), he meanders over to the window—it’s a gaping, square-shaped hole cut into the stone wall, and outside the sky is a bright, painted blue that reminds Ed of the tea set in the Rockbell house, the one reserved for special occasions. Al leans forward a little, armored head peering out and tilted slightly downward. Something beneath them had caught his little brother’s interest.

Intrigued, Ed shuffles over and peers out the window. A stretch of gravestones—near-identical, impeccably-clean rows of white stone. Unlike the older buildings in Liore, there’s no sand or dust marring the smooth alabaster surfaces, and they don’t look weathered, don’t look like they’ve endured sandstorms and relentless sun and summer monsoons. They’re brand new, and Ed finds it incredibly disconcerting that the gravestones of recent dead are placed just outside the church quarters, just a peer-out-the-window away from view. It’s almost a warning of some kind, he muses wryly. As if to say, you can either be saved by this religion or end up dead in the dust like those poor souls down there.

Or, hey, maybe he’s just reading too much into it.

A figure is knelt down before a gravestone in the front row, dark hair spilling down her back and even more striking against her white dress. He lets out a grunt as Rosé rises to her feet. It makes sense—but just because something makes sense doesn’t mean it’s justified.

“She lost her boyfriend,” Al explains. Like that excuses anything. “She doesn’t have any parents. Or relatives. He was all she had. And then, he...”

_“Taboo,” Ed repeats, carefully. The word tastes strangely on his tongue. “That’s a funny word, isn’t it Al?”_

_“Brother—”_

_“Who gets to decide?” To this, Al blinks, and his eyes widen. Ed ignores him, keeps talking, because it feels like a spark just lit in his belly. A spark that flashes light through all the dark parts of him, burns away the aching and the shadows and everything that has been weighing him down. “Who gets to decide what’s taboo or not? I bet—I bet it’s only labelled that ‘cause no one could ever do it right. Because they all failed, and they were too proud to admit that. So, so they labelled it forbidden, so no one would know how spectacularly they failed.” Ed peers down at the pages, at the dry text and the lightly-sketched illustrations and the annotations made by a parent who vanished long ago. A dark thrill of excitement goes through him. “But we won’t.”_

_Tentative excitement blooms on Al’s face. “Are you saying—”_

_“Yeah.” Ed is grinning. His heart has latched onto the idea and he knows, then, that it will never let go. “Let’s do it, Al.”_

Oh, dammit. Ed turns away, stomps over to the bed. He can feel Winry watching him, her eyes following him silently, and—he hates it. Hates her fucking sympathy. The mattress creaks beneath his weight as he collapses against it. Above, the ceiling is littered with little cracks in the corners. “The guy’s still scamming people, Al.”

Al’s spiked shoulders hunch. “...maybe not.”

“What.”

“Well.” Al turns to face him, and it still amazes Ed, after all these years, how expressive Al’s phantom eyes are. “Maybe he really _is_ a holy man.”

He sits up sharply, gawking. “Have you lost your damn _mind_?”

His brother hunches in on himself a little. “I’m just saying—there’s the possibility there. Maybe he _is_ a man of God.”

Well, God is an asshole, so if this Cornello guy is in league with God, that makes him an asshole too. But Ed’s not going to say that, because Al doesn’t remember—doesn’t remember any of it. Ed tries to reign his temper in before he says something he regrets. “And the phony miracles?”

This gives Al pause a little. He turns his head to the side, and Ed can just imagine Rosé praying, just beyond his sight. “...maybe they _are_ phony, but does it necessarily have to be malicious? Maybe he’s just trying to generate interest.”

“So he’s not a conman,” Ed says, peering through the fringe of his bangs and wrestling with the urge to punch something, “just a propaganda artist. _Totally_ an upgrade.”

“That’s—you—that’s not—”

“Al,” Winry intervenes. Her tone is carefully neutral, though his trained ears detect something solemn, and he _hates_ it. “Even if it’s for the best intentions, even if he is pious and virtuous—isn’t it cruel, to give people false hope? Especially about... _this_?”

Ed closes his eyes. His right shoulder and left thigh ache.

But even Al can’t deny that. The clank of metal accompanies footsteps. “I guess that’s true...”

When Ed’s eyes open, he is met with Al’s hulking metal back. The steel is not polished to a sheen, is dull from wearing and weathering, but he can still catch a glimpse of his reflection.

_God is a jackass. He doesn’t let people come back. It doesn’t matter if it’s a sinner or a saint—the price is too high._

It’s warped by the curvature of the armor, his reflection. But the basic features are the same—smoldering golden eyes and hair as dark as midnight. Between the dye job and the sunglasses, you could never determine that he’s blond and golden-eyed, could never determine that he’s of Xerxean descent. Al and him have argued to high heaven over it, because it’s another sacrifice and Al doesn’t understand, but Al doesn’t need to understand for Ed to make it.

( _Al doesn’t have a body, doesn’t have the option on whether or not to bear the proud golden mantle of Xerxes, doesn’t—_ )

A spiteful urge hits him and, before he can stop himself, he finds himself casually running a hand through his hair. “We should probably pick up some more dye, later. 'Fore my roots start to show.”

If you don’t believe that it’s possible for a suit of armor to tense up, you would be dead wrong. Winry shoots him a warning look, but he ignores her.

“Y’know, ‘cuz m’runnin’ low.” Ed knows he’s pushing it. He knows this is mean and spiteful and that he shouldn’t be taking this out on Al—but he’s hurt by the betrayal. Al was there when it happened, was there when everything went wrong. Al should know, better than Ed, about the price, about the impossibility of the task, how cruel it is to inspire this sort of twisted hope in people.

Masterfully, Al sends him a look that is cool and stoic. “Right. Because it’d be _bad_ if anyone figured out you were Xerxean, right?”

“Guys.” Winry seems to know where this is going and her eyes are hard. “ _Stop it_.”

“What? I’m not allowed to worry about my hair?” There’s nothing wrong with talking about his hair. It’s _his_ hair. It’s not his fault Al has a fucking problem with it. And it’s not his fault the military is fucking racist. “Y’know what? Fuck it.” He heaves himself off the mattress and stomps towards the door. His left boot makes a particularly heavy step. “Rosé says there’s a miracle thingy starting soon, right? Let’s go see that. It’ll _prove_ this guy’s a liar.”

“It’s like you _want_ him to be a conman,” Al grouses.

“Of course I do! Because then that means he has a fucking Stone!” And then it’ll all be over. Everything will be _over_. Al will be flesh and blood again. Ed won’t have to dye his hair and pretend he’s something he’s not and salute before a commander who’s orders he grudgingly obeys. And listen to that snarky lieutenant. “How can you _not_ want that?”

Ever the mediator, Winry has stepped between them, hand held out. “Guys. _C’mon_. We’re all stressed and cranky and it’s been a long day. Let’s not take it out on each other, okay?”

For a long time, Al only stares at Ed with eyes that should be bright golden and set in a youthful face. Ed wants to scream.

Then his helmet shifts, and those ghostly eyes fall to the ground. To feet that are giant and metal when they should be small and fleshy. “Not all faith is a lie, Brother.”

“Yes, it is,” Ed deadpans. Faith in God, faith in authority, faith in the military. Hah. “And it’s told by the people in power so the idiot masses won’t question them. People who live by faith alone are just deluding themselves.”

“ _Guys_ ,” Winry says again. It sounds crushed.

Al raises his head again. A challenge. “Aren’t _we_ here out of faith?”

It feels like a blow to the temple. He suddenly wants to bang his head against the wall until his forehead comes away caved in and dripping with blood.

( _my fault i’m so sorry please just wait a little longer everything’s gonna be alright i’ll fix it **i promise**_ )

Ed doesn’t bother to respond—just turns heel and storms out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first roleswap, in case you haven't figured it out yet, is Trisha and Hohenheim. Honestly, I've seen the concept discussed a bit but rarely have I found a fanfic that focuses on it, so here we are!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed and, once again, if there are any questions or clarifications needed, feel free to drop a comment!
> 
> Sincerely yours,  
> The Immortal Moon


	2. False Prophet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thankfully, Ed does not take the bait. It seems there are miracles, after all. Instead, he says, in an acidly chipper tone, “Well, regardless, Xerxes has some very interesting stories. Did you hear the one about Icarus?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The feedback I've gotten has been overtly positive, so I'm going to continue uploading chapters. Expect updates on a monthly to bi-monthly (twice a month) basis.
> 
> "[text]" = being spoken in Xerxean

_“Too close to the flame_  
_Ambition has burned me_  
_With my wings ablaze_  
_I'm falling back to earth”_  
—Haken, “Falling Back To Earth”

 

Al didn’t know what to expect of Father Cornello, but when the so-called Holy Man emerged upon the stage and was met by a roar of cheering applause, he’s hit with a distinct sense of disappointment.

Putting aside all religious titles, Cornello is rather plain. Bald, fairly old, simple black robes that are ill-fitted for the desert heat and don’t fully hide his gut. His fair complexion distinguishes him as an outsider, and he just—doesn’t _look_ impressive. Doesn’t look like the sort of person people would ask to kiss their babies or worship the very ground they walked upon. And yet, the crowd is cheering, loud and bright.

Then there’s a flash of crimson—the telltale crackle of transmutation light—and if Al had a beating heart, it would do somersaults in his chest.

Brother, who perches precariously on his suitcase so as to peer over the crowd’s shoulders, gives a disgusted grimace. It is the expression of an artist who has dedicated themselves to their masterpiece, only to find that it’s been parodied, that someone has taken your labor of love and effort and turned it into a cheap caricature. It is the expression of an alchemist who has imprinted their fingers with ink and the smell of paper from long hours spent locked in the library, reading and reading and reading until the words and arrays burn themselves into their corneas—then finds a charlatan being praised for simple acts that a child could out-perform.

Well, Al doesn’t think that their child-selves can be held to the same standards as everyone else—not when they had been learning to read and speak a dead language and performing transmutations with a finesse that left most adults in the dust—but it’s the principle of the matter.

There’s a deep sigh from Winry, who has stationed herself between them (Al isn’t entirely sure if she’s there to dissuade them from resuming their earlier conversation or to catch Brother if he falls, maybe both). She crosses her arms and frowns sullenly. “So he’s really just a third-rate, huh?”

“Told you,” Brother chirps, but his heart isn’t really in it. He’s too busy studying the stage and the man occupying it.

An inherently stubborn part of Al doesn’t want to believe it. Cornello is smiling in such a kind, serene fashion as he transforms a small daisy into a radiant sunflower bigger than he’s ever seen. But he knows that a smile means nothing. That smiling is just an action dictated by facial muscles. Anyone can smile, anyone can put up a nice, pretty façade, but whether or not that smile is genuine or not is a different story entirely.

Well, maybe his intentions aren’t entirely malicious. That much Al can content himself with. Frankly, he’s tired of running into scammers and liars and people who only use alchemy for their own gain.

Speaking of which.

He watches in dumb fascination as Cornello cups a small figurine in his hands—and then expands it until it towers up from behind him. Bearded, a corona at his brow, staff held proudly in hand, shadow cast long and deep over the crowd. Al assumes it to be an image of Leto.

That’s impossible. By all accounts of nature, of natural law, of alchemic law, of basic scientific principle. Every law has just been violated by no more than a flippant wave of the hand and few errant red sparks.

 _Why red?_ Al wonders absently. _Normally, transmutation light is blue..._

His observations take up so much of his attention that he doesn’t notice when Rosé, the girl from earlier with a soft, innocent face framed by pastel-pink bangs, trots over to them with a friendly smile. By the time he does notice her presence, she’s appeared between him and Winry, already engrossed in conversation with the blonde. He almost starts in surprise, but this hollow body of his is not made for physical reactions to emotions—which can be incredibly frustrating at times, mind you. Not that he’s going out of his way to complain when Brother is eclipsing gold with hair dye and tinted lenses. Not when Brother suffers restless nights and renews his vow almost every morning. Not when—

_“Al?” Brother pokes his head through the doorway, and Al starts, moving quickly to shield the pages with his arms and body. The action does not go unnoticed, and Brother’s brows hike up to his hairline. “What’re you readin’?”_

Ahem.

Winry smiles along as they talk, though it’s a strained sort of smile that brings to mind the talk they had when Rosé was first guiding them to the Church. When they first learned about Cornello’s apparent ability to raise the dead, so perhaps that is the topic. Al’s hypothesis is further supported by the newfound tenseness in Brother’s shoulders and how his jaw keeps twitching like he’s biting back protests.

“So, what do you think of the Father’s miracles?” Rosé asks cheerfully. The question is directed at Ed, and Al’s nonexistent muscles instinctually tense.

_Don’t say anything insulting, don’t say anything insulting, please, Brother—_

Unfortunately, Al’s pleas go unheeded. Brother lets out a particularly ugly-sounding snort. “Guy’s a fraud.”

Is it really so much to ask for Brother to not be so blunt? Really?

Rosé balks. Winry turns her gaze up to the sky in search of patience. A ripple of applause goes through the crowd as Cornello performs another not-miracle.

Then Rosé’s shock transforms into indignation. “How can you _say_ that?”

Brother releases a heavy sigh as he turns to her. It rings with exasperation, like parent trying to explain why a two-year-old can’t have cake before dinner. “It’s not miracles, or God, or any of that shit. It’s alchemy.”

“Alchemy that ignores the Laws,” Al points out. Because even Brother can’t deny that these feats would blow the minds of even the most steadfast scientist. It’s certainly bewildering Al, because he can’t seem to find an explanation for it. And there’s _always_ an explanation.

The petulant huff as Brother turns back to Cornello is proof enough of his concession.

Confusion and indignation bleed together on Rosé’s face. “What Laws? What are you talking about?”

“The Laws of alchemy.” When she only frowns dubiously at Al, he has to remind himself that not everyone around him is an alchemist and knows about the basic mechanics. “Uh, the Law of Natural Providence, the Law of Conservation of Mass, and the Law of Equivalent Exchange.”

Her blank expression says everything. She has no idea what he’s talking about.

He should also probably remind himself that not everyone is a scientist, either.

It takes him a minute to collect his thoughts. He’s always been one to overexplain, especially since it’s hard to distill such complex concepts into a simplistic essence that can be understood by someone with absolutely no foreknowledge. Winry always used to complain about it when they were little and the three of them—him and Brother and her—were pouring over his father’s books.

Perhaps that’s why he’s unsurprised when Winry gives his breastplate a thump and flashes him a playful smile. “How about you let a normal talk to another normal, eh?”

The statement elicits a glare from Brother, but Al gives a sheepish nod and turns his attention temporarily back to the stage.

In the end, he ends up completely missing Winry’s layman explanation, because at that moment, Cornello raises a glass of water to the sky. With a scarlet crackle, it colors a deep maroon that reminds him of blood.

 _Wine_ , Al realizes belatedly. _Water into wine, like the fountain._

Brother catches his eye, golden irises burning behind dark lenses. He quirks his brow subtly—left brow. Al glances back at Cornello and notices the alchemist-priest is handling all his materials with his left hand.

Light glints off a golden band on Cornello’s ring finger.

“Oh,” Al says, quietly. If he had blood, it would be quickening in excitement, pulse fluttering through slender veins and tickling in his wrists. A smooth red stone glimmers on Cornello’s ring.

“But you’ve _just_ seen him turn water into wine,” comes Rosé’s frustrated voice. Al peers down to see the Liori girl with her hands planted firmly on her hips, and Winry doing her best to hide obvious exasperation behind a very forced smile. Apparently their conversation isn’t going as amicably as he’d hoped. “So it’s not alchemy, then! It’s something else entirely—a miracle!”

“Nope,” Brother says, casting a lazy glance down at the two girls. “It’s still alchemy. He’s just found a way to fuck around with the Laws.”

Rosé stares at him wordlessly with an expression that borders on contempt.

And then, because Brother clearly dislikes being people’s good graces, he adds, “And he can’t bring back the dead either. Just so you know.”

Now it’s fury that simmers in Rosé’s eyes. “You _dare_ —”

Brother casually cards a hand through his bangs. Al tries not to focus too much on the glove. Or the dark hair. Or on anything, really. “It just can’t be done. Even by the genuine article—which preacher-man isn’t, so.”

For what feels like the thousandth time, Al laments Edward’s bluntness. It’s almost as though his brother has a death wish, the way he pisses people off left and right.

From the look on Rosé’s face, she looks even less thrilled by Ed’s dismissiveness. But as her eyes flick to the front of the crowd again, something that causes her expression to shift and smooth out into something cold and borderline sanctimonious. She tilts her chin up, eyes like starlight. “Watch, then.”

At first, Al doesn’t know what she’s talking about. He doesn’t like the expression on her face, finds it rather inconsistent with the rest of her. When he turns to face the stage, though, he’s met by the sight of Cornello cupping something limp and green in his hands with a surprisingly gentleness. It takes a moment for Al to recognize it as a dead bird—not unlike the ones that used to crash into their windows when they were little, falling limp against the ground (he remembers lamenting the stillness, remembers growing teary-eyed and whimpering, tugging desperately at Dad’s pant leg and begging him to _do something_ —). It takes another moment to understand the implications.

There is a flash of crackling scarlet, and then Cornello raises his hands to the sky. The green burden shifts—then takes flight.

If Al had breath in his body, it would be gone.

Everyone cheers feverishly.

Everyone but them—Rosé only looks smug while Winry’s eyes grow round and shimmer with the beginnings of horror, as Brother’s jaw falls open.

Al’s armored body does not give away the cold rush sweeping over his soul, but he can almost feel how it’s supposed to be. Can almost feel the way his stomach turns and bile rises to his throat and the tremble in his hands, if only they were there. His body does none of this, because there is no stomach or throat or flesh hands—but the feeling is still there, a phantom pain.

It was dead. It was _dead_. Just a second ago, it was—

“Son of a _bitch_ —” Brother totters, nearly falls off his suitcase. His sunglasses are slipping off his face but he makes no move to push them back up. “What the _actual fuck_!?”

A ripple of scandalized gasps goes through the crowd at the sudden profanity. People whirl around with wide eyes and slackened jaws and disapproving glares. Brother does not seem to notice, much less care.

Unfortunately, it’s not just the crowd that notices. Despite the distance, Father Cornello catches the disturbance and, shading his eyes with his (left) hand, he zeroes in on Brother. Then he gestures to one of the robed men at his side—clergymen, Al assumes. The next thing Al knows, the Father has a microphone in hand and is looking straight at Brother.

“It seems we have a skeptic in the crowd.” Father Cornello’s voice booms. Are there speakers somewhere? “Say, young man would you like to come up on stage, please?”

Oh _God_.

If Al was still flesh and blood, his spine would have straightened and his breath quickened and his blood would go numb with absolute horror. As it is, all he can do is stare and pray that Cornello is talking about someone else.

He is not.

Brother leaps off his suitcase enthusiastically. The expression on his face—a scowl of murderous rage hidden behind a smile with too many teeth—is utterly chilling.

“Winry,” Al chokes as Brother slides his way through the crowd. People part for him as though they can sense the impending disaster.

“On it,” she says gravely, and is immediately at his heels. “Ed! Don’t do anything stupid!”

Bewildered, Rose turns to him, but there’s a hint of apprehension on her face. “Uh. What is he planning, exactly?”

“Something very, very bad.” And likely blasphemous. Al groans and wonders how much the townsfolk’s good graces will hold out.

* * *

The main problem in keeping up with Ed is that he’s short, which means that he can easily disappear in a crowd full of tall (or normal-sized) people. Which the people of Liore are, so Winry has to fight and squeeze and writhe her way through tightly-packed clusters as she pursues his black braid.

Unfortunately for her, by the time she surfaces at the front of the crowd, Ed has already made his way on stage. Suitcase thrown casually over his shoulder, posture relaxed, grin wide and shit-eating. But the subtle tilt of his head betrays malicious intent.

A shudder rolls down her spine.

“I am to understand you have doubts about my miracles,” says Father Cornello mildly as Winry races over to the side of the stage. She can see a set of stairs. Oh God. “May I ask why?”

“Simple.” Ed’s tone is sweetly cheerful. Oh _God_. “I think you’re full of bullshit.”

Murmurs and gasps arise from the townsfolk. A clergyman blocks Winry’s path, a disapproving scowl on his tanned face.

Despite the accusation, Cornello’s face is surprisingly pleasant. It’s almost unnerving, how well he takes it in stride. “I’m sorry, but that doesn’t quite answer my question. It’s only a restatement of your doubts.”

“I’m with him,” she tries to explain, pointing sheepishly at Ed over the clergyman’s shoulder. He doesn’t look very moved.

“Well, I’m not sure I like this Leto guy.” Ed’s voice is casual. Too casual. His gaze of feigned disinterest lazily roves the statue that looms overhead. “I mean, bringing the dead back? Does that really seem like something you want to put your faith in?”

There’s something a little sharp in Cornello’s smile. “You doubt the infinite wisdom of God?”

“I doubt that an infinitely wise god would cheapen the value of life like that.” _Oh_ _God_. Winry _really_ needs to get over there and clamp a hand over his mouth. “Like, _think_ about it. If we can just die and come back, what’s even the point of living in the first place?”

Winry sends the clergyman a pleading look. “Sir, _please_.”

“Isn’t it bad enough that we humans are cheap fair?” He sets his suitcase down and— _Dammit Ed!_ —pulls out a little notebook from his pocket. Flips through it, absently, as though it were a mere afterthought in his mind. “Water, thirty-five liters. Carbon, twenty kilograms. Ammonia, four liters. Lime, one-point-five kilogra—”

“Ed!” she hisses furiously.

He turns in surprise and blinks at her, likely having not realized she was in pursuit of him. And then, of all things, he has the gall to flash a bright, sunny grin, then turns back as though he never saw her. The book snaps closed and vanishes into his pocket again. “Well, you get the picture. That was a partial list of the elements composing the average adult human body. Did you know that those ingredients are so inexpensive that kids can buy it all with pocket money? Who knew the selling price for us humans was so low?”

Scandalized murmurs erupt from the crowd. Winry’s hand itches to pluck her wrench from her toolbelt.

Cornello’s face gives an unpleasant twitch, but he’s quick to resume his pleasant façade. “A rather heretical thing to say, don’t you think?”

Ed gives an easy laugh but it doesn’t sound right. Even his effort at feigning disinterest is laced with something cynical, now. “What can I say? I’m a scientist. I believe in empirical values.”

Wariness flickers across the Father’s face. “A scientist you say.”

“Yeah. Hey, maybe you’ve heard of me?” _Oh God, Ed, please, don’t be stupid, don’t—_ “Edward Hohenheim, Fullmetal Alchemist.”

Father Cornello’s smile completely drops.

She stifles a groan. **_Now_** _you’ve done it!_  Can’t he go _three seconds_ without boasting that ridiculous title?

“Ever heard of Xerxes?” Ed goes on. He turns sharply, his scarlet coat flying out behind him as he faces the crowd.

Winry freezes. Heart in her throat. What is he doing. What is he _doing_.

Despite the wild change in subject, Cornello somehow manages to not look to perturbed, aside from a newfound wariness in his expression. He folds his hands in his sleeves, hiding the glint of his ring. “Ah, Xerxes. A true tragedy, that. And no truer an example than God’s wrath, should arrogant humans attempt to put themselves on His level.”

...oh boy.

A tremor runs through Ed’s shoulders, but it is not fear. She notes his hands curling into fists and swallows. “You think _God_ was responsible for what happened to Xerxes?”

Maybe if she can just distract the clergyman enough to sneak past...

“Is there any other explanation?” Cornello asks smoothly. There is no hiding that hint of smugness in his tone, the profane curl in his otherwise serene smile.

Thankfully, Ed does not take the bait. It seems there are miracles, after all. Instead, he says, in an acidly chipper tone, “Well, regardless, Xerxes has some very interesting stories. Did you hear the one about Icarus?”

The clergyman catches Winry by the arm in her attempt to sneak past. She offers a sheepish smile in return for her failure.

“It’s a really interesting story.” He starts pacing the edge of the stage, coat fluttering out behind him. She’s convinced the breeze that kicks up is summoned by his sheer desire to look “badass”. “This guy, Icarus, and his father Daedalus are trapped in this castle by a king. Daedalus was commissioned to build this labyrinth, you see, to trap a monstrous creature. And it works, of course, ‘cause this Daedalus guy is a genius. But he’s also the only one capable of cracking it, and the king gets scared, I guess. So he takes Daedalus and his son and locks them in a tower, ‘cause that’s always the solution, am I right? The only two exits are a hallway that’s armed to the teeth by the king’s best guards, and a window that overlooks the ocean—which, by the way, is like, a million-story drop.”

He turns sharply on his heel, braid swinging out like an ebony blade. The cynical breakage in his eyes offsets their haunting polished-topaz color. Her heart clenches.

“But like I said, Daedalus is a genius. He asks the servants repeatedly for candles and feather pillows over the course of a few weeks. Then, using the wood from the bedframes, he constructs these massive pairs of wings. Once they’re done, they strap ‘em on and take to the sky. The king can’t do anything but splutter helplessly!

“Now, the first thing Daedalus says to Icarus is not to fly too high. The sun’s hot and it’ll melt the wax. But Icarus—he doesn’t listen. And how could he? They’re flying! Something no human being has ever done before!” Ed flashes a grin to the audience, but it’s jagged, like someone carved into his face with a shade of glass. Winry whimpers helplessly and sends the clergyman another pleading look. “So he keeps going, higher and higher, because flying is just _so_ fucking awesome. But, turns out, Daedalus was right. The wax melts and Icarus—”

He claps. A shudder of horrified anticipation runs down her spine.

“—fell straight down.” Ed drops, palms smacking the ground. “ _Splat_.”

She watches in horror as steams of blue light erupt from the ground. Behind the massive statue of Leto, stone and sand morph, rising to form massive wave-like constructions, ripples and seafoam. They part as a great spear-like construction juts its way out—and impales the forming image of a young boy straight through the chest. Wings unfurl from the boy’s arms, the contour of them wild and the feathers inexplicably detailed, and she can see the places where stone-wax is melted, dribbling down the foundations of the contraptions. The boy forms with his head thrown back, hair still flying above his face as though caught mid-fall, his jaws parted into a scream of horror. His body is contorted around the stone spike, stone-blood (there’s even a touch of iron in the composition to give it a reddish touch) gushing from the gaping wound, and the waves leap out in curving arcs to frame the whole violent display.

It’s giant, easily dwarfs the statue. It is giant and detailed and disturbingly gorgeous. Disturbingly _graphic._

Appropriately, people scream. Cornello’s jaw falls open.

Winry’s stomach lurches. She’s a doctor, is used to the sight of blood and other things that make most people squeamish—but this has her throwing a hand over her mouth to keep from vomiting or sobbing or worse.

And Ed—he turns back to Cornello and carelessly tosses his hands behind his head. “But hey, maybe you know more about this religious stuff than I do. What do you say we set up a meeting later? Does eight tonight sound good?”

That’s _it_. Something in Winry snaps, and she’s charging past the clergyman (who isn’t even paying all that much attention anyway, he only stands there trembling) and marching over to Ed. Her vision blurs around her as she hooks her arms under his—she says something, but she hardly hears it, the words coming out choppy and robotic. Probably an apology, if she had to guess, if she cared enough to reflect on the matter enough.

Then she’s tugging him away, as hard as she can, hyperaware of the firmness of his automail arm.

He does not resist, only bends down to snatch up his suitcase without pausing and glancing over his shoulder to give an enthusiastic, “Let’s talk later, okay Father? Great! Thanks!”

As if to drive the knife in even further, he has the gall to blow a kiss to the horrified audience.

God.

She leads him as far away as she can. The street becomes a hot, angry blur around her as she stomps down it, dragging Ed, and it isn’t until that _repulsive_ creation of his is out of sight that she whirls around sharply. She is fairly certain her ponytail slaps him, but damn if she cares. Damn if she cares. He’s crossed the line.

“Edward Hohenheim, what the _fuck_ was that?”

Ed returns her fury with annoyed mutterings (probably in Xerxean, she hates when he speaks in Xerxean, when she can’t understand him, and he _knows_ it) and ignoring her in favor of massaging the ball-and-socket of his automail shoulder. He gives a huff, then peers at her down his nose. Well, as best as he can with the height difference skewed in her favor. The sunglasses are set low on his nose, and he thinks they look badass—she thinks it makes him look like a douche.

“I was making my debut,” he says. Prissily. Like _she’s_ the one in the wrong—the _nerve_. “I needed to let that Cornello bastard know I’m not the sort of person he can fuck around with.”

Anger roils inside her, hot and tumultuous and burning. That is no excuse. No excuse. “And that _statue_?” she spits, the word feeling vile and nauseating on her tongue.

Her tone only seems to strike a chord of offense in him. “Creative imagery!”

“Creative—” She can’t finish. She just can’t. Her hands tear through her ponytail and her eyes burn with wet pinpricks. “It’s horrifying!”

“It’s _art_ ,” he scoffs. Having the sheer _audacity_ to sound _offended_. She wants to _strangle_ him.

“ _Horrifying_!” she repeats forcefully. She’s bordering hysteria, she knows, but goddammit, _goddammit_. How could something like _that_ —come from _Ed_? “Hideous! How could you even think—do you have any idea—how _disturbing_ that was? How— _grotesque_ — Oh my God, Ed—”

“You’re overreacting!”

She doesn’t hear him. She can’t. Her breath is hiccupping too loudly in her throat. “A-And it’s _face_ —”

The hair likely concealed it, but she had been standing at an angle where she could perfectly see the statue’s face—a face that was chillingly similar to Ed’s.

Her face ends up buried in her hands, wetness hot and sticky against her palms. Ruby darkness greets the underside of eyelids squeezed defiantly shut. She is not a dignified crier. It results in puffy eyes and snot and fat, ugly tears that stripe a reddened face, but— _goddammit_. That was too much. That was just _too much_.

“G-God, oh _God_ —t-that—m-my _God_ —”

Winry is not sure how long she stands there, sobbing like a three-year-old into her hands, loud, pathetic noises in her throat and her shoulders wracked by sobs. She is not sure how long Ed stands there, watching her, but she can feel the anger ebbing from his presence, can feel it wavering and being replaced by something heavier, oppressive. Can imagine his shoulders slumping and his gaze averted, as though her tears are something shameful, something so offensive that he can’t bring himself to look. He always looks away, when she’s crying. Like it’s pathetic, like it’s the most pathetic thing he’s ever seen and he can’t _stand_ it, to so much as look. Even when they were kids, he always used to call her a crybaby. And if there’s absolutely one thing she despises most about him—more than his impulsiveness and his horrendously gawdy sense of style—it’s this, this refusal to comfort her when she’s in desperate need of it.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. But he doesn’t reach out and touch her. Doesn’t place a comforting hand on her shoulder. Doesn’t even move. “I... I didn’t mean to... upset you, Winry. I’m sorry.”

And he is. She knows he is. That’s probably the worst part, because he’s sorry and he _still_ won’t do anything to comfort her. Just lets her cry out, exhaust her own tears, and look the other way.

She sniffs loudly, all snot and ugliness, as she looks up. Tears blur her vision, but she can make out his dark-haired head, and eyes averted away from her face. She doesn’t need to see clearly to recognize the familiar expression of self-loathing.

He thinks he doesn’t have the _right_ to comfort her.

Sometimes, she wonders how the hell _anyone_ can call this boy a genius.

Her palm is rough against her cheeks as she wipes at the tear-tracks. Water dribbles off her chin. Her eyes feel raw. There are still hiccupping sobs in her throat. “J-Just—Just d-don’t do it again, you idiot. Just—p-promise you won’t do it again.”

“Okay.” His voice is uncharacteristically quiet, shoulders slumped, head downturned. “Okay, I won’t.”

Another sniff. Breathe, Winry. Breathe.

When she’s confident that the moisture clinging to her face isn’t too obvious and can be easily mistaken for sweat, she nods. “Good. Let’s go find Al.”

* * *

Al is very much prepared to give his brother hellfire and fury for that little stunt when he finds them at the graveyard just outside the Church. Because it is _just_ like him, the sort of stupidity he likes to pull every now and again—pushing his absolute cynicism onto others without a second thought. And what about all that stuff with _Xerxes_? Does Brother have _any idea_ how _infuriating—_

So yes, he fully plans to give Ed an earful.

But—then he sees the way Brother’s shoulders are slumped, eyes trailing the ground and his gait significantly slowed. Then he sees the way Winry keeps rubbing furiously at her eyes with the back of her hand, her cheeks ruddy and her nose sniffing in constant intervals. It seems he’s been beaten to the punch.

And there’s no sense in beating a dead horse.

“We have a meeting with Father Cornello,” he informs them, keeping his tone neutral. Brother nods dully, still refusing to look up. Winry smiles but the action is forced. “Hopefully we can just borrow the Stone and walk out of here without a fight.”

Brother barks a laugh—a sharp, curt sound that cuts off as quickly as it begins. “Without a fight. Right. Because this guy is _totally_ gonna give up a Philosopher’s Stone, no questions asked!”

One of the worst parts of having an absolute cynic for an older brother is that, sometimes, he’s right. Another is that when he _is_ right, it makes you feel like a wide-eyed, naïve little kid in comparison. Either way, it’s a thankless position.

“We could always negotiate,” Winry points out, but her voice is shaky, and so is her argument. She scrubs furiously at her slightly-weepy left eye. “Maybe?”

Rather than ease their anxiety, it only served to draw a dubious look from Brother. “And offer _what_?”

She bites her lip, averting her eyes. Brother sighs, running a hand roughly over his face. The sun is beginning to sink in the sky, cutting shadows that are progressively longer and darker and deeper. Stripes of darkness bleed from the headstones.

Whatever Winry said when she chewed Brother out, it was effective. Maybe too effective. They need to focus if they’re going to pull this off because—because they are so, so _close_. Closer than they have been in quite a while.

“If we _are_ going to fight him, we should at least try to keep the civilians out of it,” Al says, calmly as he can manage. The Church, being the massive structure that it is, casts a particularly large shadow. “Can we at least we can agree on that?”

“Obviously.” Any other day, Brother might’ve sounded offended. But there’s no bite to it now—he just sounds so _tired_. It makes Al’s nonexistent heart clench. “We’ve gotta find a way to empty out the Church. Discreetly.”

Winry breathes in deeply, then exhales. “I can take care of that.”

Nervousness, and a few other emotions, flutter across Brother’s face as he turns to her. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” She smiles, but it’s strained, and her eyes still glisten with frightening wetness. “I mean, let’s face it, guys. I’m the least conspicuous out of all three of us.”

To this, Brother looks away pointedly. But he is unable to fully hide his wince from Al. “Whatever.”

* * *

Winry is discreet as she slips away to inspect the convent for clergymen. She does not announce her presence or her departure—she is simply there, and then gone. Or maybe Ed hasn’t noticed, with the way he is pointedly trying to ignore her presence.

No, it’s not her presence he was trying to ignore. It’s the sickly, gnawing sensation of guilt that squirmed—still squirms—in his stomach.

 _I made her cry_ , he thinks sullenly. _Again._

The pew is not comfortable. Hardwood that chafes against his rear and his back ache to lean against. Still, despite his discomfort, even he can admire the structure of the Church interior—clean lines, large clerestory windows that let light flood in, and a few beautifully renditioned stained glass configurations that scatter tessellations of color across the tile. Atop the pulpit sits an altar littered with various offerings, varying from antiques to homemade baked goods to even pouches of coin.

Above it, a likeness of Leto is carved into the wall, with silent, empty eyes that stare him down accusatorily.

And they wonder why he’s an atheist.

Al’s gaze slides over to him surreptitiously. “So... what did Winry say?”

 _God Al, not now._ Ed peers up at the ceiling. Etching-Leto is giving him the Eye, just like how Dad used to. “Oh, the usual. I’m a careless asshole. Inconsiderate jackass. Hit me with her wrench a couple times. That sort of thing.”

“...right.” Al doesn’t sound at all like he believes him, but he doesn’t press.

Around the lump in his throat, Ed concludes that he has the _best_ little brother in existence.

A door to the side creaks, drawing him out of his reverie. The man who steps out has black robes reminiscent of Cornello’s, with dark hair and a goatee and a particularly oily look about him. Ed finds himself having trouble believing this man’s intentions are purely innocuous.

“Ah, you must be Mr. Hohenheim.” Even the man’s _voice_ is oily. Any sincerity slides right off. “My name is Cray. I’m been asked by Father Cornello to escort you to the meeting room.”

“Of course.” Ed slides to his feet. Everything’s fine. He’s fine. “I’m so glad the Father was kind enough to assign us an escort. A Church as big as this probably has so many hallways—we’d just get lost! And then where would we be? Although...” He flashes a smile, the kind that he’s seen the lieutenant use a hundred times to disarm pretty girls. “I’d bet it has some absolutely gorgeous art. And it’d be a good opportunity to admire such fabulous architecture, if I do say so myself.”

The chastising look Al gives him warns that he’s laying it on a little thick, which is probably for the best, because his own smarmy tone is making him want to punch himself in the face. But Cray smiles, clearly pleased.

“How gracious of you to say.” Something’s fishy. This isn’t usually how you talk to someone who just defaced the town square. Cray turns. “Follow me, if you please.”

“Sure thing, preach.” With uncharacteristic obedience, Ed follows him. Creaks and clanks punctuate Al’s trailing footsteps.

Cray leads them down a plain, unimpressive hallway. Al is quick to lean in close, exuding a wary discomfort as he murmurs, “Brother, I think that man has a gun.”

Ed’s gaze traces Cray’s black robes. For the most part, they’re form-fitting, snug around his shoulders and loose around the waist. But faintly, very faintly, he can make out a swell at the man’s hip. Definitely a gun.

Loudly, he says, “I know, right! I think the buttresses are impressive too!” Then, quietly, and using one hand to shield the side of his mouth, he says, “Don’t worry. We can handle it.”

It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve been threatened with a gun.

You wouldn’t have guessed that, though, from the worried look Al sends him. Sometimes Ed swears Al has absolutely no faith in him. It’s quite insulting.

Smiling in a way that is just a touch too wide, Cray stops before a pair of plain but elegant doors. He opens one and makes an absent gesture towards the inside. There is something a little too eager about the glint in his eyes. “Right this way, Mr. Hohenheim.”

Oh, wow. This guy isn’t even _trying_ to hide it. Ed wonders if all guys carrying around guns could please be this transparent. It would certainly save him the trouble of having to figure out who’s going to try shooting him. It seems only courteous, after all.

Ed has to fight to keep his hands out of his pockets. Playing nonchalance is one thing, but he’ll need his hands free if he’s going to react quickly. “Thanks, pal.”

Al only bows his head to accommodate the doorframe. He says nothing.

The room is no more impressive than the hallway, just as barren and unfurnished, but it _is_ large. A skylight hangs overhead, allowing light to pour in, bright and yellow. There’s a balcony of some kind (is that the right word? can you call it a balcony if it’s indoors?) that hovers high above Ed’s head, with a fairly plain white banister meant to keep you from falling and breaking your neck should you decide to lean over too far. Absently, he notes a door set in the far side of the wall—well, no, not a door, it looks more like those metal covers used on shops when they’re closing up. A garage cover. That’s the right word, right?

“Nice rug,” Ed says as the door closes behind him, the loudness of it disruptive to the stillness of the room. Rather ominous. But hey, the rug _is_ nice. Red and gold with tassels on the corners. He wonders if it’s thrown over the floor to hide bloodstains, or if it’s there to soak up the blood. Either way, nice choice.

There are guards posted on either side of the door they came in from, each with long, bladed polearms. Al tenses behind him, casting them a nervous look. Ed notes that the points are nice and sharp and likely capable of slicing through flesh with terrifying ease.

Cray doesn’t respond.

“And the tiles are cool-looking too.” Nice, shiny white, recently buffered. Ed catches a phantom of his reflection in them. “Porcelain, I’m guessing?”

“You guess correctly,” Cray says mildly as he approaches them. Hands folded behind his back, Ed notes absently. “My apologies. Father Cornello is very busy. He’ll join you in a minute.”

“No worries.” Ed crosses his arms, leans back on the ball of his automail foot. He catches Al hissing a cautious “Brother”, but he ignores it in favor of the tiling. “How high’s the silica content in this, anyway?”

“I think you have bigger things to worry about,” Cray intones, a touch ominous. Lightning-fast, he whips out the gun and aims it at Al’s helmet. The gunshot rings out through the room before Ed can react and metal clatters against porcelain tile and—

Ed doesn’t think. His metal leg moves on its own accord to slam into the man’s gut. The gun goes flying and shoots a second time before it hits the ground. The bullet whizzes high overhead—punching right into a window of the skylight.

Glass shatters, and the shards glitter as they come raining down. Backpedaling, Ed manages to extricate himself from harm’s way in time. He catches a movement and the glint of steel in his peripheral.

His vision refocuses on Al. Al, standing over Cray, arms outstretched and glass clinking vainly off his metal shell. Al, shielding the unconscious man from what might have been a deadly accident. Al, protecting.

 _Only Al_ , Ed thinks with a sigh as the guards come charging, _would protect someone who just tried to shoot him._

The first guard goes down easily with a sweep of Ed’s leg and a metal fist to the face. A groan, a tooth coming loose, blood on Ed’s glove. He _just_ cleaned them, dammit. The other’s blade ends up dangerously close to Ed’s face, whizzing past his cheek and probably splitting a few errant hairs. He ducks as the guard swipes the blade as though making to behead him.

Without warning, the doors burst open and a wrench comes flying through the air. If Ed were taller, if might have hit him, and so it is one of those times that he grudgingly thanks his lack of growth over the years as it strikes the guard in the forehead. The man’s head snaps back from the impact, and he collapses beside his companion.

Disbelieving, Ed turns. Winry stands there, chest heaving and eyes wild with fear, leaning forward as though prepared to lunge. A second wrench is gripped in her hand, arm wound back to throw if need be. Behind her, Rosé lingers, fist to her collarbone and eyes the size of saucers. The touch of paleness to her brown skin only further accentuates the expression of horror she wears.

He blinks, then cracks a weak smile. Talk about timing. And impeccable aim. “God, Win, I think you might have _actually_ killed someone this time.”

“Shut up!” she snaps in her signature blend of worry and exasperation. But she lowers her throwing wrench, even if she doesn’t put it away. “I heard gunshots!”

Creaking resounds as Al gets to his feet, brushing glass slivers off his vambrace. “Yeah, but don’t worry about that. We’re fine.”

“Gunshots and shattered glass,” Ed says with a smile he hopes is reassuring. Her furious glare says he is largely unsuccessful. “Just a normal day, really.”

Winry open her mouth, presumably to fire off something particularly scathing. But then Rosé shrieks.

It’s embarrassing how long it takes—a nearly half a minute!—for comprehension to sink in. He looks at Rosé, follows her wide, fearful gaze over to Al, and then glimpses the empty helmet that lays, discarded, some ways away.

Dumbly, he remembers that not everyone is as used to the sight of a sentient suit of armor as he is.

The fury falls from Winry’s face, and her gaze follows his to take note of Al’s discarded helmet. A sigh falls from her lips, not quite exasperated, more like a concession of some kind. Shoulders slumping, she stalks over to it, snatching it up by the long white feather. “Lost your head, huh Al?”

“Can I have it back?” Al asks. There’s a hint of annoyance in his tone, or maybe it’s just apprehension twisted into something resembling annoyance. Maybe it’s a discomfort from the way that Rosé is staring at him. Whatever the case, it has Ed bristling.

_The armor clatters against the hardwood floor of the study. Ed’s leg throbs with hot pressure and sheer, molten agony, but he can’t feel it. His pulse roars in his ears as he traces a circle onto the inner back of the cuirass, a smooth circle, triangles, the curve of the central sigil—_

**_(—iron in the blood synchronizes with the iron in the armor, guide the soul to the vessel, apply the synchrony, create the seal—)_ **

_“Give him back,” he hisses, thick with pain. He can barely see straight for the blackness swimming in his vision, but he traces patterns on his elbows, on his forehead, hands moving of their own accord with a skilled practice that is foreign to them. “He’s my little brother. He’s the only family I have left! Take my arm or my other leg or even my heart—just **give him back**!”_

With a minute nod, Winry tosses the helmet over. Al catches it deftly and is quick to replace it. It doesn’t stop Rosé from staring, stricken.

“You’re hollow.” Her whole body is trembling. And Ed wants to seize her by the shoulders, because how _dare_ she look at Al that way. It’s not _fair_. Al isn’t _scary_. Al is about as terrifying as a fucking _butterfly_ , how dare she— “You’re—how can you be—”

A wince goes through Al, unseen to anyone but Ed, and he reaches towards her with a leather gauntlet. “Rosé—”

She gives a horrified squeal, then bolts.

Al’s gauntlet falls with a sigh.

Blood boiling, Ed turns away, having to clench his fists to keep from punching something. “[Bitch.]”

Before Al can muster a response or Winry can inquire about a translation, the metal sheet in the wall gives a groan. Three heads turn simultaneously as it rises, folds up on itself, slow and creaking loudly enough to fill the whole room. Muscles and steel tense. A massive clawed paw emerges from the shadows.

Ed curses very loudly in Xerxean.

The thing pounces. Ed rolls out of the way, and Winry gives a sharp yelp as Al tugs her away from its path. He loses his sunglasses at some point, which is fine because it allows him a better view of what he’s dealing with. A lion’s head and thick mane, hunched forelegs reminiscent of a bear, hindlegs like that of a rooster stripped of feathers, a massive, writhing reptilian tail. Scales around the empty eyes, golden and slitted, wild with pain.

Despite the loud thumping in his chest and the fresh rush of adrenaline, he huffs a laugh. “[Fucker made a chimera!]”

It snarls, spittle flying from massive fangs. Claws tease at the porcelain tile, elicit sharp, grating squeaks. Said claws have completely shredded the carpet where Ed was standing. Oh boy. He’d better not have to pay for that.

“Brother!” Ed turns. Al has Winry at his side, one arm thrown around her protectively. Winry’s eyes are wide as she takes in the monstrosity, but there is a determined sort of urgency radiating from Al. “There are other people here!”

Oh, damn, he’s right. Ed glances at Cray, who rouses subtly with groan, then slumps back into unconsciousness. The two unnamed guards lay side-by-side, unmoving, sidearms carelessly discarded.

_Shit._

“Okay.” Ed claps, steel stinging flesh. Blue sparks dance across the white fabric of his gloves **(—the circle is the guide and the energy flows within it—)**. “You guys get them out of here. I’ll hold it off.”

“ _What_?” Winry shrieks. “Ed don’t be crazy!”

A low, garbled growl rumbles in the chimera’s throat. Partially feline, partially ursine, partially something else entirely. Its muscles work as it moves, tenses, prepares to pounce.

“Go!” He slams his palms against the tile.

**(KAOLINITE IS THE MAIN INGREDIENT IN COMMERCIAL PORCELAIN PRODUCTS—SILICA OXYGEN ALUMINA HYDROXIDE—TRANSMUTE)**

The stone liquifies and forms a dip beneath his hands. A hilt rises from the depression, arcs of blue energy that have the chimera hissing and shuffling back. It does well to keep the creature’s attention occupied, because the shuffle-clank-clank of Al’s footsteps indicate he’s going to collect the fallen men.

**(MOHS SCALE OF MINERAL HARDNESS—STEEL RANKS FOUR-POINT-FIVE—VITREOUS SILICA RANKS SOMEWHERE BETWEEN SIX AND SEVEN—NOT AS MALEABLE BUT STILL STURDY—REMEMBER TO ADJUST FORMULA FOR EXTRA TENSILE STRENGTH)**

He grabs the spear in his hand. Light plays dangerously across the sharp edge of the crystalline blade. “ _Here_ kitty kitty.”

With another snarl, the chimera lunges.

Ed lunges too.

* * *

Winry’s knees are still shaking as she chases after Al. He’s slowed by the three men carried over his shoulders, but his armored body is tireless and unbelievably strong, so it doesn’t slow him down much. Between this and her still reeling from what just transpired, she finds herself lagging considerably.

Finally determining that they’ve reached a safe enough distance, Al stops and sets his burden down. The men are rested gently on the ground with a clumsy care that only Al, with his inexpert leather gloves, can manage. Winry can see the purpling mark on one of the men’s faces where Ed decked him in the cheek, cutting skin and drawing a trickle of blood. Another one has a large, swelling bump where her wrench struck true. Such a shame she lost her second one in the chaos.

“Okay.” Al rises with a great creak. The lines of the metal overflow with determination. “I’m going to go help Brother.”

He starts forward, and she starts after him. Then suddenly, he stops, turns, peers down at her.

“You should stay here,” he says with ethereal shimmering eyes.

Did she hear that right? She cleans out her ear with her finger, just in case. “I’m sorry. Did you just tell me to stay here and, just, _wait_ while you two fight and possibly kill yourselves?”

Thankfully, he has much more sense than his brother, because he recognizes his mistake in her overly chipper tone and draws back a little, hands held out placatingly. “N-No. I mean— Um—”

“I am coming with you,” she says, a little too bright. Granny says she has a way of sounding terrifyingly cheerful when she’s angry. Ed calls it her “gleeful murder” voice. “That is the end of it.”

“Winry—”

“If I wanted to wait around for you,” she goes on with a hint of force, taking a sharp step forward, “I would have stayed in Risembool. _Understand_ , Alphonse?”

If he were capable, she has no doubt he would have gulped. “Yes ma’am.”

They are about to race back to that room where Ed is fighting that—that—poor, debauched creature—when there is a sudden crackle of static that fills the air. They both tense in bewilderment.

“Attention all children of God.” Father Cornello’s voice drifts through the hall, light and airy and the same gentleness he uses to enunciate his sermons. For some reason, it sends goosebumps up Winry’s spine. “I have a very important announcement.”

Ohhhh boy. She has a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“A trio of military operatives have infiltrated our Church. They are intent on destroying our prosperity and seizing Liore for themselves.” Wow. _Wow_. Talk about disinformation! Is anybody seriously going to believe that the military would send a trio of teenagers to do that? Well, _Ed_ is in the military, true, but that’s a special circumstance and it’s just him. She and Al are civilian tagalongs. “While it is not the way of our God to enact violence upon our fellow man, I beg of you to take up your arms and to capture these intruders! Bring them to me, so that I may judge their hearts and punish them in the name of Leto!”

A click, then silence. Winry blinks.

Releasing a quiet groan, Al brings a leather hand to his helmet. It’s a strikingly human gesture. Looking at it, one needs no further proof of his personhood. “He has complete agency over the airwaves, doesn’t he?”

It certainly seems so. And it also seems like he rigged the entire town with his broadcasting system. She’s not going to lie—the technical genius needed to pull off such a maneuver is fairly admirable.

Okay. Think, Winry, think. There are going to be a huge flood of crazed zealots coming after them in a second, and Ed is fighting a chimera. They can’t just wait for the clergy to show up and cart them off to Cornello, even if he is the person they need to confront. If they try fighting their way out, they’ll only end up in chains, which puts them at a disadvantage—and, more importantly, puts Ed as a disadvantage, if Cornello decides to use them as hostages. She doesn’t really want to consider the possibility that Cornello would do that, but he _did_ send someone to kill the brothers, plus release a chimera on them. So, she can’t assume that he’s above anything underhanded, at this point.

Logically, the best course of action at this point is to confront Cornello on their own terms. Which means finding him before he finds them.

She looks at Al. The look in his eye tells her he’s come to the same conclusion, though he is significantly less enthusiastic.

“Rosé told me that Cornello has a whole private section beneath the Church. Closed off from the public.” Winry’s initial thought upon hearing that was “dungeon”, but Rosé assured her that it was where Cornello communed with Leto. She’s having her doubts about that now, though. “She said it was probably where he is now.”

He nods. “Lead the way.”

* * *

The flight of stairs—hidden save for the telltale alchemy marks on stone, Al was quick to pick up on it and alchemize it away—plunges into darkness. As her sense of sight is robbed, Winry becomes highly conscious of her other senses. Ears pick up the faint creak and clank of Al’s footsteps behind her. Nose picks up the scent of mildew and stagnant water and something else faintly sour. Skin turns to goosebumps when exposed to the cool, dank air.

Unlike the rest of the Church, this underground part is not furnished or polished. The stone is roughly hewn and water pools in the crevices of the concrete floor. Something scampers off in the distance. Al trails her closely, the glow of his eyes casting a faint light over the darkness. Torches break the shadows, mounted to the walls and making the gloom flicker like ghosts.

Yeah. This place definitely gives off “dungeon” vibes.

She catches sight of a set of double doors. Plain, unfurnished wood, but fairly massive. Biting her lips and crossing her arms, she chances a glance at Al. If he is as uneasy as she is, he’s good at hiding it. Or maybe she’s just not as hyper-tuned to him and his moods as Ed is.

Speaking of Ed—he’d better get his ass down here. And soon. It’s not right to have her worrying like this.

“Brother will be fine,” Al says softly, so suddenly she nearly jumps. She turns to him in surprise and is met by the steady glow of scarlet eyes. It seems that she is not afforded the same unreadability as him.

But he’s right. Ed is a fighter through and through. Relentless, stubborn, the kind of person who cannot be broken so easily. He weathered automail surgery with only a grimace and curses, but no cries of pain. He’s managed thus far. He can manage now. She just needs to have faith.

_Faith is part of the problem, in Liore’s case._

She smiles and forces herself to mean it. “Of course he will. In the meantime, let’s get the Stone from Cornello. Save him the trouble.”

“Right.” Al clanks forward and takes the handles in his hands. The doors groan open, the creak of them grating against the jangle of nerves in her stomach. She breathes in deep, grappling against the sense of foreboding that has decided to nestle in her sternum.

The room beyond is lit dully, cast in a warm ochre glow by torches that line the walls. Firelight dances across the concrete floor, glimmers on a series of metal doors. A balcony hangs overhead, with a crude metal railing that provides a flimsy barrier between her and the man standing there. Cornello seemed innocuous before, standing on a podium and bathed in the unconditional love of the townsfolk. But now, with the shadows playing across his features and the gem of his ring giving a soft, bloody pulse, he looks significantly more ominous.

Beside him, Rosé has her hands clenched into fists out in front of her. Head downturned, eyes peering up fearfully through the fringe of her pastel bangs.

Winry tries not to feel too disappointed. (She is only marginally successful.)

“Ah, so you’ve come.” Cornello has once again taken to his pleasant smile and friendly façade. But now she can see what lurks beneath—the flicker of shadows and wariness and greed that haunt the underside.

Al gives an innocuous tilt of his helmet. “Well, sir, you _did_ call for us. It would be rude not to respond.”

Cornello bares his teeth. It’s not a smile. “How polite.”

“Winry.” Rosé comes forward suddenly, hands gripping the railing until her knuckles blanche and face stark with desperation. It’s not a good look on her, Winry notes absently. It makes her look haggard and pale and slightly crazed. “Please. Listen to me. I know that you’re a good person—not like _them_.”

The word “them” rings with disgust and fear, twisted up in some infernal medley. Winry narrows her eyes. Al shifts at her side.

“They’re _heathens_ ,” Rosé goes on, with something particularly vile in her tone. Fear and distrust congeal in her features, create a particularly twisted mix that has her refusing to so much as even glance Al’s way. “Demons! They’ve been marked by God as blasphemers and heretics. You must get away from them _immediately_.”

She can’t decide if it’s the words themselves or the tone Rosé uses that has Winry’s ribs contracting. A slow, steady pulse of exasperation overpowers her anxiety, and she clenches her teeth behind her lips. So this is Cornello’s work. Taking the natural distrust inspired by ignorance and a lack of understanding, then warping it into an ugly prejudice stamped with the label of God on top. Winry is not overly religious—but she is also not a hardcore atheist the way Ed claims to be—and the sight of faith and hope being so senselessly mangled has her stomach turning.

With a scowl, she slowly crosses her arms. Twin emotions of disgust and anger thrum through her veins. “Did he tell you that, too?”

It’s a simple question, but the implications are there, and Rosé sees them. She balks for few good moments, but is quick to recover, returning the insinuation with fury as she leans over the railing. To better project her voice or to better look down at them, Winry doesn’t know. “The Father has _never_ lied to me! He has no reason to! These people you’re aligning yourself with will damn you straight to Hell!”

The dull pulse of exasperation strengthens and burns into something like anger. Only she doesn’t think anger is supposed to resonate on such a deep level. “I make my _own_ decisions—you should do the same.”

“I’m only trying to _help_ —”

“Well stop!” Winry doesn’t mean to raise her voice, but—Rosé doesn’t even know them. Doesn’t _know_ them, or what they’ve been through, or anything else other than what she thinks she knows.

(That night when Al showed up on her doorstep, a hulking thing with Ed’s bleeding body cradled in his arms. Ed writhing on the operation table, biting down screams of agony and refusing to cry over pain that Al was unallowed to feel. Al’s sleepless nights. Ed’s nightmares. She knows none of this.)

Pain bites into her arms. Nails puncturing flesh. Eyes sting with heat. “Who are _you_ to judge them, anyway? What gives you the _right_ to look down on them?”

Rosé looks stricken.

A slowly creak as Al turns to her. “Winry...”

“Your loyalty is admirable, girl.” Cornello speaks again. A scolding, almost sympathetic tone, like a father trying to explain to their child that fighting is wrong, even if you’re trying to defend yourself against a bully. It makes Winry’s hackles rise. “But I fear it is misplaced.”

“Look.” A note of something angry has taken residence in Al’s tone. He’s growing frustrated, too—with the judgement, the scorn, the sanctimoniousness. The knowledge that she is not alone in her indignance is grounding. “We came for one thing and one thing only—the Philosopher’s Stone.”

While Rosé makes a noise of surprise, a patronizing smile blooms on Cornello’s face. “And why would you expect to find such a thing here?”

“Because your ‘miracles’ are actually alchemy,” Al explains with forceful calm. The times when Al grows a backbone are truly a sight to behold. You get so used to Ed screaming and snarling and constantly putting his foot down that you sometimes forget that Al can be just as assertive, if he’s pushed far enough. He steps forward, the clank of armor ringing loudly. “You bypass the Laws with your ring—which is actually the Stone, isn’t it Mr. Cornello?”

Bewilderment flashes across Rosé’s face. She looks at Winry, who gives a slight nod of confirmation. Uncertainly, she turns to Cornello, and Winry can see the desperation in her eyes—a bright, offensive glow.

“F-Father?” Her voice trembles faintly. Her hands are shaking around the railing. “What are they talking about?”

Something cool and calculative surfaces on Cornello’s face. It is stalked by an undercurrent of a laziness, a dismissiveness that has Winry’s bristling. Languidly, his gaze slides from Al and the slow, steady burn of his eye, then to Winry and the defiant jutting of her chin, then to Rosé and the rawness of distress that mars her features.

With a sigh that sounds just a hint patronizing, he touches his ring, shielding the crimson gemstone from view with his fingers. “Oh, very well. I’m afraid it’s true. My miracles are alchemy, granted to me by virtue of this Stone.”

Watching Rosé’s face crumple is almost painful. But Winry’s brows knit, because he is far too quick to surrender. Far too quick to cast away a carefully-crafted façade.

“However,” Cornello goes on, and ah, there it is, “my intentions were never malicious. I only wished to inspire hope in this town, to heal what is broken. True, my miracles are not divine in nature, but the Philosopher’s Stone allows me the power to accomplish the very feats I promised.

“Rosé. I _will_ bring him back.”

The statement echoes a little through the concrete space. Its weight settles familiarly heavy on Winry’s shoulders. She just didn’t notice it the first time.

“...can you really?” The hope in Rosé’s voice is raw and visceral and painful just to listen to. Winry wants to tear her hair out and scream, because how can she _believe_ this bullshit?

_“We **can** do it,” Ed promises. His grip on her shoulders is just a tad too tight, and his eyes burn with a startling conviction that almost has her believing him. But his face is gaunt and pale, bags under his reddened eyes. She wonders how many late nights he has spent, ruining his eyes by candlelight as he scribes theories and transmutation circles and nurses that deep ache of hope muddied by grief. “We can bring him back. But—But not if you tell anyone, Winry. They’ll just get in the way. So, just pretend you never saw anything. **Please**.”_

“Yes, dear child.” Cornello speaks with a soft tenderness, and he reaches out to take her dark hand into his pale ones. “I _promise_.”

Al makes a motion, likely to say something, but he doesn’t get the chance. Something goes whistling through the air, high overhead, then strikes the wall. Far enough from Cornello not to be particularly threatening, but close enough to make him start in surprise and to elicit a tapered shriek from Rosé.

With a jolt of surprise laced strongly with relief, Winry recognizes it as a spear. Crystalline, sending dispersions of light across the wall, the tip of the blade imbedding itself deep into the concrete. It’s showing and flashy and impractically designed—Winry finds herself smiling.

“I,” comes a voice from behind, raw and thick, “Am so. Fucking _tired_. Of hearing that bullshit.”

Winry allows her hands to drop as she turns. The torchlight turns his silhouette into a mere shadow. A second spear is clutched in his hand, identical to the one embedded in the wall.

At her side, Al visibly sags with relief and mutters something in Xerxean. Probably something along the lines of “took you long enough”.

She is inclined to agree—then she notices that his clothes are shredded, his right sleeve and his left pantleg. The metal of her crafted automail glitters coldly against the warmth of the firelight.

“Just so you know, I had to fight, like, _twenty_ of your little altar boys before I got here.”

Ed starts forward. The unevenness of his footsteps is more prominent than ever, a muted thump-clank, thump-clank, thump-clank. As he grows closer, she can that he has a cut on the edge of his hairline, which weeps a stripe of scarlet down his face. Rosé lets out a gasp, hand flying to cover her mouth as her eyes grow round. Cornello blinks in dull surprise.

“I _also_ had to deal with a fucking freak of nature that _you_ cooked up, you sick bastard. Of _course_ you would use one of the most perverse kinds of alchemy out there.”

Smudges of dirt dance across his left cheek. His coat is gone, and the glint of automail is not so much prominent as it is faintly visible through the messily-torn shreds, but it only serves to further accentuate his ferocity. His jaw is set grimly as he stalks forward, teeth bared in a snarl. The spear catches torchlight and glitters sharply, which counterpoints the slow, steady burn in his amber eyes.

“And worse of all—it fucking _shredded my clothes_. Do you know how much _money_ I paid for these?”

_Leave it to Edward Hohenheim to make a dramatic entrance._

“So when I say I’m gonna _pay you back_ ”—he raises his spear, aiming the pointed tip at Cornello—“you better _fucking believe it._ En garde, you third-rate hack.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I did research the chemical compositions and formulas in order to accurately portray transmutation. Yes, I am a giant nerd.
> 
> Again, I am willing to answer any questions, so feel free to ask.
> 
> Sincerely,  
> The Immortal Moon


	3. Wings of Wax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Steel?” He grins, giving his automail shoulder a thump with his free hand. Hard and solid. That chimera tried to tear through it with tooth and claw, but Winry is the best damn engineer this side of Central, so it didn’t leave anything beyond a shallow mark. “Yep. Like I said before—Icarus went ‘ _splat_ ’. Take a good, _long_ look, Rosie! _This_ is the price you pay if you try to resurrect the dead.”

_“Now that my feathers are broken_  
_Crestfallen my head is bowed_  
_Splashing down into the ocean_  
_Something seems different now”_  
—Haken, “Falling Back To Earth”

 

By chance, Rosé ran into Winry after the Showing of Miracles. The foreigner wandered around the Church with a pensive furrow in her brow and nervous teeth worrying at her lip. There was a touch of wetness on her cheeks that suggested recent tears, only further highlighted by the red tint to her eyes.

She tried to be cordial, given the circumstances. The statue, twisted and gruesome, still stood in town square where Winry’s companion had erected it. But that did not necessarily implicate the blonde, for she had been the one to drag him off before he could cause further damage. This, Rosé reasoned, meant that she saw the wrongdoing of the action and perhaps had come to the Church in search of forgiveness. Or perhaps she just did not want to be in the company of such a blasphemous individual. Both were equally plausible.

Bringing the topic up was a complete accident. Rosé had tried her best to avoid it, but it was a pachyderm that swelled in the room, pressed itself against the walls and struggled against them for breathing room. Ignoring it was a nigh-impossible endeavor, for such imperfect beings as them.

“I’m sorry,” Winry said, and sounded like she means it. When she sighed, her shoulders sagged beneath an unseen weight. “He’s just—impulsive, I guess. And needlessly flamboyant. He probably thought it was a good way to get Father Cornello’s attention.”

To this, Rosé couldn’t help but balk. “He thought _that_ was a good way of getting attention?”

The blonde girl shrugged. “I never said he wasn’t stupid.”

“Hopefully his talk with the Father will do him some good,” Rosé huffed. Such flagrant impulse! And to put that impulse into something so sacrilegious and disrespectful, too! But if anyone could inspire the light of God into someone’s heart, then surely it was Father Cornello.

Winry shot her a dubious look, but didn’t comment. Instead, she asked, “Where is he, anyway? Father Cornello? I mean, he’s head of the Church, but I haven’t really seen him around. I thought he’d play a bigger role in day-to-day operations and everything.”

There was an implication there that Rosé didn’t like, so she chose to ignore it. For Winry’s sake. “He’s in the lower level. It’s not open to the public.”

“Lower level?” Winry repeated. When Rosé nodded, her brows furrowed worriedly. “Like a dungeon?”

“What? No!” How could this girl think such ridiculous thoughts? After all, what use would the Church have for a dungeon, or a prison of any kind? “It’s sacred. The Father goes down there to pray and hear the word of God.”

Fresh dubiousness made itself known on Winry’s face. “He speaks to the Sun God... while underground.”

Well! Anything sounded ridiculous when you speak in such a manner. “In the deepest of darkness, God’s light shines brightest.”

“Of course.” Again, Winry bit her lip.

Whatever was worrying her, it was eating deeply at her heart, Rosé could see. She remembered her own anxieties and fears, when her boyfriend grew ill and the doctors were puzzled at how to heal him. When he passed, she’d had nothing, and she’d wept to herself, wondering what on earth she was to do, now that she was alone and had nothing. But then Father Cornello came and rewarded her faith with hope. Soon, her love would return to her, and everything would be as it should.

“Do not worry,” Rosé said. She placed a hand on Winry’s shoulder, which made the younger girl stop, and turn to her with bewildered eyes. Rosé returned with a smile, as reassuring as she could muster. “Father Cornello is a kind man. He will help your friend see the light and the error of his ways. Soon he won’t find himself inclined to act out so rebelliously.”

Tentatively, Winry placed her hand over Rosé’s. For a moment, she thought she’d gotten through to the blonde, and her chest swelled with hope and relief.

But then Winry frowned. Slowly, surely, began plucking Rosé’s fingers off, then pushed her hand away. “I know Ed’s a little wild, but it’s not like he needs to be _saved_. It’s not like he has the Devil in him or anything.”

The pushback was bewildering. But, Rosé reminded herself, to believe so freely was often a confusing experience to acolytes. It was normal for those with guarded hearts to misunderstand faith, to view it as naïve or puzzling. Winry was just unused to the concept, surely. And required a patient hand.

“He calls himself an atheist,” Rosé reminded her. “And erected a monstrous monument in town square.”

“Maybe so,” Winry responded carefully. Her brows were furrowed a touch. “But as outrageous as his methods were, I don’t think his overall point is wrong. He has his reasons.”

Rosé arched a brow. She’d very much like to know what sort of reasons could possibly be expected to justify this sort of behavior.

“Ed has had a tough life,” Winry went on, something like sympathy aching beneath her words. “He’s lost a lot. He and Al.”

She expected Winry to continue, but then something rang through the Church. It was a noise that Rosé didn’t know, but it made Winry’s head snap around to peer behind her, eyes growing wide and bright with fright.

* * *

Now:

Cornello peers down at Ed from high overhead, which is really just fucking perfect, isn’t it? All these sanctimonious bastards who like to hide behind religion—they get this sort of kick out of being able to look down their noses at people. Cornello isn’t the first poser priest they’ve come across, and he certainly won’t be the last, but he is the first one to have what they want, what they’ve been searching for all this time.

Four years. It ends now.

Rosé—of course the bitch is at his side, brainwashed by his pretentious sermons and his vacuous promises of blind faith—stares at him in horror. Maybe he has more blood on his face than he realized.

“You arm,” she murmurs, and oh, he got it wrong then. Her gaze is not on his face but on the glint of steel showing through his torn sleeve. “Your _leg_. They’re—”

“Steel?” He grins, giving his automail shoulder a thump with his free hand. Hard and solid. That chimera tried to tear through it with tooth and claw, but Winry is the best damn engineer this side of Central, so it didn’t leave anything beyond a shallow mark. “Yep. Like I said before—Icarus went ‘ _splat’_. Take a _good_ , long look, Rosie! _This_ is the price you pay if you try to resurrect the dead.”

And she must not be as dumb as he initially took her for, because he watches as her eyes widen further with realization. She looks first at him, then at Al, and he can see the pieces connect. “You—”

“ _Now_ I understand,” Cornello interrupts, mouth parting into a wide, mocking grin. Because he’s a manipulative bastard who can’t let her form her own opinions. Oh no. Bad for business, that. “You two violated the ultimate taboo of alchemy, didn’t you?”

Well, it’s not like they’re going to _deny_ it. What happened, happened. And there’s no changing that.

“Rosé.” The smugness in Cornello’s voice has Ed bristling. “Standing before you are two men who committed the most grievous sin in all the world. In their sheer arrogance, they attempted to place themselves on the same level as God and create a human being!”

“ _What_!” Al squawks. “No! That’s not what we—”

“Al,” Ed intones. Because that’s _exactly_ what they did, reluctant as they are to admit it. Their reasons do not matter. Equivalent Exchange doesn’t care about intent. It only cares about whether or not the equation balances, and theirs hadn’t. Not just because it was lacking, but because they were pathetic humans who demanded that the forces of nature bend themselves to their will.

_(how dare you ask death to reverse itself for you who do you think you are)_

Winry takes a bold step forward, leveling Cornello with a defiant glare of her own. Her eyes shimmer. Fuck, has this guy been making her cry? If so, Ed is going to _kill_ him. “It wasn’t _anything_ like that.”

Slowly, Al lowers the gaze of his helmet. “We just—we missed our dad. That’s all.”

_Water, thirty-five liters. Carbon, twenty kilograms. Ammonia, four liters. Lime, one-point-five kilograms. Phosphorus, eight-hundred grams. Salt, two-hundred-fifty grams. Saltpeter, one-hundred grams. Sulfur, eighty grams. Fluorine, seven-point-five grams. Iron, five grams. Silicon, three grams. Fifteen other trace elements._

_One big mistake._

Rosé’s expression falters.

“But I’m guessing you didn’t succeed,” Cornello jeers. The urge to sock him in the face rises in Ed’s stomach. “You failed, and that failure cost you. You see, Rosé, their current predicament is punishment for their hubris and defilement of the natural order.”

“ _Right_.” It takes all of Ed’s self-control not to chuck something at the bastard priest. “Because resurrecting the dead is only defiling the natural order when _we_ do it.”

Father Bastard’s face sours. Ed decides he’s going to call him Father Bastard from now on, because, _c’mon_. Still, he revels in his success at striking a nerve.

“Clearly you haven’t learned much,” Father Bastard says coolly. His leery smile renews the urge to punch him. “You come here seeking the Stone, and for what? To pick up where you left off?”

“ _Fuck_ no!” Ed spits. The very implication has his blood _boiling_ , every hair on the back of his neck standing on end. He has to tamp down his temper before he shatters the silica spear in his steel hand. “How _stupid_ do you think we are?”

“We just want our bodies back to normal,” Al says coolly.

Winry places a fist to her chest and steps forward, a plea in her eyes. “And no one needs to get hurt.”

But her plea doesn’t have the desired affection. Father Bastard, bastard that he is, flashes a mocking grin. “And you’ll stop at no lengths to acquire it. Of course. Can you expect anything less of heretics?”

_How is no one seeing this guy’s glaring hypocrisy?!_

“To not deal with you now would be foolish indeed,” he declares, and the doors behind them snap closed.

Ohhh, that doesn’t sound good.

The groan of metal brings Ed’s attention to the walls. More garage-doors, like the one in the previous room. Goosebumps rise along the back of his neck. Winry inches closer to him, shoulders tight with anticipation. Al leans forward a little, braced for a fight.

“ _More_ chimeras?” Despite the trepidation churning in his belly, Ed flashes a smile as he readies his spear. “You’re a real one-trick pony, you know that, pal?"

Father Bastard answers him with a thin, foreboding smile.

A shrill cry echoes from one of the garage-doors. Ed’s insides tangle themselves into cold knots. He tightens his grip on the hilt.

Then the air explodes into lurid feathers and avian shrieking and a cacophony of flapping wings.

With a shriek, Winry dives down, throwing her hands over her head in order to shield herself as a pair of talons shred through the space where her head was. Al catches one of the attackers by the throat and throws it against the ground, but it still claws at him and its snapping mouth tears at the leather of his gauntlets.

Before Ed can do anything, a large foreboding shadow settles over him. He barely has time to raise his spear before it meets scaly feet.

The chimera bird gives a scream as it claws around the silica glass. Its talons are long, milky white and nearly as long as his finger. A large, blunt beak snaps at him, dribbling saliva and radiating hot, reeking breath that smells vaguely of rancid meat. The eyes that peer at him are cloudy and sightless and alight with a sort of rabid madness. Every bold stroke of its wings sends a flurry of green feathers everywhere. Its weight presses hard against the spear, and he finds himself pushed back, the soles of his boots sliding against the concrete.

Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Ed digs his heels in and throws the thing off. Six more, nearly identical to the first save only for having a different coloration, swarm the air with ear-splitting cries.

_Bastard transmuted a whole flock!_

Another one, this one bright sunny yellow. He makes to stab it, but a foot closes around the hilt just beneath the blade. Despite the increased tensile strength, the glass _shatters_. Ed rolls out of the way just as a purple one swoops overhead.

He eyes the bladeless hilt in dismay. Well, there goes that. An orange one approaches, and he throws the pole at in a vain attempt to ward it off. It misses by a mile. The chimera doesn’t slow.

 _Shit!_ He claps and touches his automail arm **(AUSTENITE VANADIUM TUNGSTEN CHROMIUM—TRANSMUTE)**. With a flare of snapping blue light, it lengthens into a razor-sharp blade, leaving the remains of his sleeve in ribbons. The transmutation causes the chimera to screech and dart away—perhaps in fear, perhaps in remembrance of its own gruesome making.

Something touches his back and he whirls around, but it’s only Winry, her eyes wild as she looks this way and that, trying to track the number of chimera swooping all around them. One of them (brilliantly crimson like freshly-spilled blood) lunges, and he has to grab her by the arm and yank her to her knees before it takes their heads off. The only invites another one (lurid blue) to notice them and, think them easy prey, dives.

Palm meets palm. He hits the concrete floor **(CEMENT—MAGNESIA CALCIUM DIOXIDE SILICA ALITE BELITE CALCIUM ALUMINOFERRITE—TRANSMUTE)** and the air thickens with a thrum of energy. There is a groan as the stone ripples and reforms itself into a thick shield-like, canopy. Chimera talons scrape across the top, and the creature gives a cry of frustration at its prey having alluded it.

“Thanks,” Winry pants at his side. Her face is pale and her hands are shaky.

“No problem.” He casts a precursory glance out to the side and catches sight of Al beating back two chimera, one violet and one green. There are furious cries as more talons scrape vainly at the surface of the wall. “Sorry. You followed us right into another fight.”

She flashes him a shaky smile. “Hey, if I was worried about that, I wouldn’t be here. I’m more worried about you and your annoying habit of broadcasting your damn title—that’s why we get into this much trouble, you know.”

Even when they are pinned by a half-dozen bird-monsters, she finds the presence of mind to criticize him! Unbelievable! With a scoff, he cranes his neck around the edge, searching for an opening. “Half the time my title scares people off!”

No reply.

Blinking, he turns back to Winry. Her cerulean eyes shine with a revelatory glow.

He knows that expression. It’s perhaps his favorite expression of hers, glowing with her genius. “You have an idea?”

A slow smirk spreads across her face.

It’s all the confirmation he needs. He turns back to the corner and makes a gesture with his flesh hand. Luckily, they are within Al’s line of vision, and his little brother gives a nod of confirmation before another chimera lunges. This time, though, when Al brings his arms up to block, he doesn’t stand his ground—he lets the chimera force him back in their direction.

* * *

Rosé watches with baited breath as these—monsters, there is really no other word to describe them—throw screech and throw themselves the intruders. At some point, they have thrown off their earthen shield and plunged themselves back into the fight, leaving two of the bird creature twitching and spasming on the floor.

Al, the sentient suit of armor, weathers talons and snapping beaks and throws them off as quickly as they swarm him. Ed, the blasphemous one, claps and lights the air blue and makes the very earth itself rise up in battle. Winry, neither fighter nor heretic, sandwiches herself between the two, using them as shields while her gaze darts warily.

At her side, Father Cornello watches with a strange, sadistic glee. She tries not to think too deeply on that. This man has promised to fulfill her greatest desire, and it does not matter if he is a man of the cloth or a man of alchemy. So long as he returns—that’s all that matters.

That’s all that matters.

Don’t think too deeply.

The sinner brothers suddenly glance at each other and give a nod. Rosé’s brows furrow. Ed claps and sends blue sparks flying.

His palms hit the ground. Energy erupts all around them, and the concrete explodes into a wave of noise, and shattered earthen pieces, and a billowing eruption of dust. She yelps, throwing her arms up to shield herself. The creatures shriek and fall back. One of them flies so close that she can feel the displaces air of its wingbeat.

Through the oppressive cloud, she catches another flare of blue light, this one near the edge of the far wall.

With frustrated cries, the creatures circle the air. The dust slowly begins to settle, and she watches as the earth gradually becomes visible once more. It is completely upended, torn and transformed into jagged ripples. Great spires of earth emerge, reaching towards the ceiling even as they curl in on themselves, like a flower just starting to bloom with the coming of spring. The petals, if they could be likened to such, are thin and tapering and vaguely similar to claws.

In the center of the concrete flower, Winry stands, alone.

Alarm bolts down Rosé’s spine. Those earthen stripes act like jail bars, trap her in some sort of birdcage construction. They are too thick and leave too little space for the blonde to slip through on her own, and even if she did, the monstrous birds still circle overhead, ready to tear her apart. In fact, the sight of them whips them into a frenzy, has them crying and squawking and diving down in attempt to get at her, talons trying in vain to reach through the gaps. Winry shrieks and ducks out of their way, but there is only so much space and she is surrounded on all sides by clawed feet.

Bewildered, Rosé looks around. The sinner brothers are nowhere to be found. On the far wall, a second set of doors has appeared—large, metal, handles reminiscent of a cow’s head. They give a slow, agonizing creak as they fall closed.

All at once, she understands.

“Father.” She turns to the man next to her, who watches the scene in bemusement. “Call the monsters off. Please.”

He turns his attention to her, raising a single brow.

“They’ve left her here. _Abandoned_ her!” The words burn like vitriol in her throat. Outrage floods her, a boiling wave that swamps her completely and numbs her skin with its oppressive heat. There is a toxicity to it, something that might be as violent and vehement as hatred, or may be a milder sort of contempt that simmers slowly in the back of her skull. Whatever the case, it has her wrestling with the urge to scream profanities to the heavens, as though the heavens deserve to be tarnished in any way. “She’s innocent! Please Father, she has not violated the laws of nature as those heathens have. Please—show her mercy.”

Father Cornello peers at her, then at Winry. Winry, with her forehead pressed against the concrete and her arms thrown over her head in an attempt to shield herself. Winry, abandoned, left to tremble there is fear, alone in a stone cage. Bait to hold off the monsters while her companions ran to save themselves.

Her blood is boiling. _“He has his reasons” indeed!_

“Please,” Rosé repeats fervently. It is a cornerstone of all faith that the innocent should not suffer for the guilty, and even if it were not, it is wrong regardless. Even if Father Cornello is not the religious man he claimed to be, at the very least he must be able to recognize this, surely.

He does not answer her with words. Instead, he raises to fingers to his mouth and whistles, long and low.

The monsters pause, suddenly. Father Cornello whistles again, and they scatter, darting off with frustrated cries into the hangars they emerged from. With a slow groan, the metal doors fold shut.

Bewildered and wary, Winry is slow to raise her head. Her eyes dart all around, taking note of the empty space. Still, the tension does not leave her muscles.

 _You’re safe now_ , Rosé wants to say. _You don’t have to worry now. Those horrible people have left, and you don’t have to suffer anymore._

But they are too far up. Winry wouldn’t be able to see her reassuring smile—not with all the dust still lingering in the air.

* * *

Winry may have been innocent in comparison to the Hohenheim brothers, but she still trespassed and was complicit in their heresy. Because of that, Father Cornello sentences her to a few days of repentance in the lower level. It would do her some good, to stay there in the dark and find the light of God within her. She would surely find herself cleansed and refreshed and would reconcile with how horribly she’d been betrayed.

But she had not been receptive to the idea. She’d gone rigid in the arms of the guards and glared at Father Cornello with a burning expression of pure defiance, and so the Father had little choice but to bind her hands.

Rosé’s chest tightens painfully as she walks into the chamber. It’s a small, claustrophobic space with no windows to alleviate the staleness of the air, and the only light comes from a low-burning torch posted on either wall adjacent to her. The flames at least add some heat, are able to ward off the deep nocturnal chill. Water pools in one corner, where the floor dips unevenly, and it is yellow from sitting there God knows how long. On the far wall, rusted handcuffs glint around Winry’s wrists as they force her arms high over her head. It must be uncomfortable, surely, and Winry has her head hung low, blonde bangs obscuring her eyes. She is the picture of defeat.

Rosé’s grip on the tray tightens.

 _It's those heathen brothers_ , she thinks, the thoughts roiling inside her dark and furious, _who did this to her. Those sinners who dragged her down to their level! It’s because of them that she’s been forced to have her hands bound._

“I brought you food.” She bends down, carefully placing the tray on the floor. The morsels are meager, a mere cup of water and a loaf of bread and a rather thin stew. It’s the portions of a prisoner, but Father Cornello advised Rosé that the portion must be light, in order to help her better reflect. Hunger sharpens the mind, and strengthens the connection to the heavens. “I know your hands are bound, so I can help you eat if you like.”

Winry doesn’t respond.

In her mind’s eye, Rosé sees the flash of steel fashioned into a blade. She tries to banish it as she peers down at the thin broth in the ceramic bowl. Its yellow is pale and sickly in comparison to the polished-topaz color that burned up at her in a defiant challenge. “I know this is not— _ideal_. But it’s for the best, Winry. You are so much better off without those— _heretics_ —around you.”

_(a suit of armor filled with darkness and nothing else and a boy of flesh and metal tangled up together)_

The younger girl is slow to raise her head. Her blue eyes simmer through the veil of her fringe.

She’s just confused, Father Cornello said. Just bewildered and traumatized after being abandoned by those she trusted most. Soon she’ll realize this is for the best. Soon, she’ll understand.

_“Take a **good** , long look, Rosie!”_

He’s wrong—the heretic boy, not Father Cornello. Rosé thinks of silken curtains behind great oaken doors. Remembers how, when the guards escorted Winry away, Father Cornello touched his hands to her shoulders and told her that she’d been patient enough.

Just because Winry doesn’t understand now, doesn’t mean she won’t soon. Perhaps, when she’s done ruminating, Rosé will take her up the steps and personally show her what a miracle looks like.

“The soup is a little thin,” Rosé apologizes. “And it’s only the broth—but it’s not particularly cold. I—”

“Rosé?” At the sound of Winry’s hoarse voice, Rosé falls silent and watches warily as the younger girl swallows. “What’s the plan, exactly?”

“Plan?” Rosé blinks. “What are you—”

“Do you plan on keeping me down here, forever?” She raises her head fully, and there is a challenge in her eyes that has Rosé drawing back. The manacles around her wrists rattle as she pointedly tugs at them. “Don’t you think people are going to notice?”

“That’s not at all what—” Breathe. In, out. The air smells stale, like stagnant water and rusted metal. “No. Father Cornello only wants you to come to terms with what you’ve done.”

Winry heaves a sigh and lets her head fall back against the wall. There is exasperation on her face as she eyes the ceiling, as though she blames it for her current predicament. “And you believe him.”

“Of course!” The response is automatic, but that doesn’t make the truth behind it any less. “Father Cornello has never lied to me!”

But her conviction is only rewarded with a dubious look from the younger girl. “Like he didn’t lie about being an emissary of God?”

The blow those words strikes deep and leaves a sharp, biting numbness. Said numbness spreads to her hands and dries out her mouth and glues her tongue to its spot.

Because she’s right.

Father Cornello—he even admitted to it, that the stone set in his ring was in fact not a gift from Leto but a product of arcane alchemy. He admitted that he was not a religious man, only presenting as such to further promote the Church. To give people hope.

It was a lie, but surely a lie for the right reasons could be forgiven. A lie for the right reasons does not an unrighteous person make. Father Cornello is human. Yes, he deceived her, but for a good cause! And even if he had fudged the truth in that regard, that didn’t mean that _everything_ he said was a lie.

No. Certainly not. Because she remembers how she wept, long and hard, as she stood before fluttering silk curtains and a familiar voice. Remembers how her knees gave out and her body was wracked with powerful sobs that shoot her entire frame, not from sorrow as she had in recent years, but in sheer gratitude and relief and _elation_. She’s sure there are still salty tracks clinging to her cheeks and her eyes are still a touch dry from having shed so much moisture.

But it was worth it, _so_ worth it. Everything was worth it. The prayers, the offerings, the constant attendance, the chores and the jobs and every little bit of it. Even the wrenching pain of having to run to Father Cornello and confide in him about the dark magic clinging to Winry’s damned compatriots.

Winry would understand, once she saw. Surely.

_(golden eyes that burn like Leto’s holy fire challenge her, and she swears she can feel them in her soul)_

“Nothing will happen to you,” Rosé assures Winry. She tries to erase the liar’s face from her memory. “I promise!”

“ _You’re_ not the one I have trouble believing,” Winry retorts tartly.

A cinder of annoyance sparks in Rosé’s belly. Her hands curl into fists around the metal lip of the tray. “He may have not been fully honest, but I trust him! And you should, too!”

“I’m not questioning whether or not you trust him,” Winry explains patiently. Rosé bristles a little, because there is a hint of something patronizing in her tone. “I’m questioning whether or not that trust is rightfully placed.”

Unbelievable! Even after being abandoned by the Hohenheim brothers, by having them exposed as the liars and frauds they are, Winry is _still_ questioning Father Cornello! It’s almost arrogant, her recalcitrance. “Of course it is!”

“Because he promised to bring back the dead.” The way Winry says “promised” makes it sound like a false, flimsy thing.

“He can! He _has_!” When Rosé heard some of her neighbors murmuring about having spoken to their loved ones, it had brought a thorny tangle of pain and longing and doubt into her chest. But now she remembers a silhouette and a voice she knew so well cooing her name. There is no doubt now. “He brought back my beloved—I _spoke_ to him!”

Silence.

Winry averts her gaze to the floor, but there is a thoughtful downward curve in her mouth. She must be reconsidering, surely. She must finally be understanding Father Cornello’s capacity for miracles. Even if they are not of God, miracles are miracles and—

“Did you see him?”

Rosé blinks. “I beg your pardon?”

“See him,” the blonde repeats seriously. She raises her eyes again, and the intensity of her gaze nearly steals Rosé’s breath away. It’s a cold, urgent fire intent on taking hope and reducing it to a charred, shriveled mass. “His face. Did you _see_ it?”

“...no.” Even if she’d desperately wanted to. But no amount of pleading and begging and tears could sway Father Cornello, so perhaps it was for the best. “The resurrection took its toll. Father Cornello says he needed to rest.”

“Of _course_ he did.” Exasperation heavily laces Winry’s exhale as she turns her eyes to the ceiling. “Do you even _think_ about what he tells you, Rosé? _Honestly_ think about it?”

_“ **This** is the price you pay if you try to resurrect the dead.”_

No. He’s _wrong_. And Winry needs to _stop fighting her_ on this. “It was him. I _know_ it.”

“But you can’t be _sure_ ,” the younger girl retorts ardently. The ferocity in her eyes is unnerving. “You were also certain that Cornello was a holy man, but that turned out to be untrue too!”

And she can’t say anything to that—because that’s true. Because she was so, so certain that Father Cornello was exactly who he claimed to be. But he’s not. No—he is, but.

But.

_“We just—we missed our dad. That’s all.”_

“How do you know this isn’t another alchemy trick?” Winry leans forward a little, shifts her legs so that they are folded beneath her. “Like those ‘miracles’ he performs in order to sway that masses?”

That’s not—

_“You failed, and that failure cost you. You see, Rosé, their current predicament is punishment for their hubris and defilement of the natural order.”_

_“ **Right**. Because resurrecting the dead is only defiling the natural order when **we** do it.”_

“He lied about that already.” She tilts her head to the side. “Did it ever occur to you that he might be lying about something _else_?”

He wouldn’t. Would he? No. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He’d never do such a thing, surely. Surely.

_“I’m afraid it’s true. My miracles are alchemy, granted to me by virtue of this Stone.”_

“He’s taking advantage of this town.” The fervor in Winry’s voice reaches a frantic pitch. “He’s playing on hope and grief and using it for his own ends. He can’t bring back the dead. No one can!”

Unknowingly, Rosé’s grip on the tray has grown so tight that it bites painfully into her palms. _That’s_ _not true_.

_“Rosé. Standing before you are two men who committed the most grievous sin in all the world. In their sheer arrogance, they attempted to place themselves on the same level as God and create a human being!”_

“It’s a trick, Rosé. It’s all just—”

“ _Shut_ up.”

Winry falls quiet. She blinks at Rosé in surprise, eyes slightly wide. The uncharacteristic outburst, at the very least, has silenced the treacherous words on her tongue. Now Rosé sees why Father Cornello has sentenced her to solitary confinement and days of prayer. Winry’s mind is poisoned—dangerously so.

“You don’t know _anything_ about him,” Rosé hisses. There is a dull, cold ache of fury lodged in her sternum, and it climbs its way into her throat, spills out through her vocal chords. “You don’t know what we’ve all gone through, what we’ve suffered—what he’s _done_ for us! You don’t know anything about our suffering! _Anything_!”

The other girl meets, and matches, Rosé’s fury with a dark smolder.

A dry burning sensation has taken up residence behind Rosé’s eyes. She scrubs at it absently with the back of one hand, even though she knows it would only aggravate her eyes further. “I don’t care if it’s wrong. If it’s against the laws of nature or if it’s forbidden—if it’s taboo or against the laws of nature or if God Himself forbids it. I’ve been patient! I’ve done everything I’m supposed to and then some! And if Father Cornello says he can bring back the dead—then _I believe him_!”

Once that cry rips itself from Rosé’s throat, her head slumps downward. It’s as though those words have sapped all the strength from her body—her neck suddenly aches and her chest suddenly aches and her legs suddenly aches and _everything_ suddenly aches. It’s like a giant bruise has begin forming on every inch of her skin. It hurts. Why does it hurt?

“I don’t _care_ what it costs me. I just want him _back_.”

Her reflection stares back up at her from the soup bowl, pale and yellow and a mere ghost of her image. It isn’t until she peers at it that she realizes her vision is blurry with tears.

No. This isn’t—she shouldn’t be crying, now. Her love has returned to her. All is well. Why—why is she—

“You sound just like Ed.”

Rosé starts upright. Winry fixes her with a rueful smile.

_“Like I said before—Icarus went ‘ **splat’**.”_

Her hands shake. She jumps to her feet and runs out of the chamber as quickly as she can.

* * *

The oaken door gives a creak as she pries it open. There isn’t even a lock to keep it in place—the only resistance it offers is the heft of it.

Rosé’s heart pounds in her throat. There were guards posted at the stairs and the halls. Father Cornello made it very clear that she was not to disturb him, but—a dark thrumming has taken up residence beside her head, and she needs to see with her own eyes that he is safe and unharmed and that he did not get all twisted up by the resurrection process.

(The guards were shockingly unvigilant, and ignored their duties in exchange for holding conversation with another, something that leaves her vaguely indignant. After all, what if those horrid heathen Hohenheim brothers return and attack Cain in anger? Perhaps she should speak to Father Cornello about it, later.)

Beyond the doors, a silken curtain rustles faintly around a plush-looking bed. The soft pastels of the room add an almost dreaminess to the interior, and a large set of windows on the back-wall bathe everything in dewy light. Dawn is tentatively breaking on the horizon, nosing its way over the dunes of the Great Desert. A few stars are still winking out in the distance, fading ever-so-slowly. Behind the curtains, a dark, blurry silhouette sits, obscured by the shimmering fabric. The creak of the door rouses him, causes his head to turn.

She shivers a little. The cool air bites into her exposed arms.

“It’s me,” she says. Her mouth feels oddly dry. She swallows, and steps fully inside. Beneath her sandals, the carpet is a soft, short shag that depresses as she steps onto it. “Cain, it’s me. Rosé.”

“Rosé,” Cain repeats. The resurrection must really have taken a toll on him, because he sounds vaguely ill. That sort of croaking quality that gives reason to the term “frog in the throat” lingers around her name.

She closes the door behind her. It gives a click as she does, one similar to a lock falling into place. But she doesn’t notice, doesn’t care. It feels so surreal, being in this room. The soft colors make it feel as though she has stepped into a room made of clouds, or frosted sugar. For all she knows, she’s walked on moondust. “I came to see you.”

_It’s not a trick. It’s not a defiance of God’s domain. This is real, this is him, this is the dead come back to life and it’s a true miracle—_

His neck turns awkwardly. “Rosé.”

“Cain?” A nervous tickle settles in her throat. She steps forward, hugging herself for preservation of body heat. “Are you alright?”

“Rooosé.” His voice comes out hoarser, phlegmier. Her heart clenches at the sound of it.

“...Cain?” Something shifts on the ground. Blinking, she peers down at her feet—a multitude of feathers is strewn across the floor near the bed, all of them in various shades of lurid green. What the—

A choked sound has her gaze snapping back up to Cain’s silhouette. His neck is doing a strange twisty thing that doesn’t look at all normal. A bolt of terror runs down her spine—what if something went wrong, when he was resurrected? What if his body was dying all over again? Oh Great Leto, God of Heavenly Fire! She couldn’t lose him again!

Heart hammering in her chest, she lunges forward. Her hands are numb as she grips the curtain, and she tugs so hard that the rings of the curtains clatter.

Then she stops. Her blood runs cold.

What greets her is not her lover, or anything even remotely resembling a human being. Stunted wings and bulbous body and green feathers that molt everywhere. Long, ungainly legs sprawled out at awkward angles, tipped by blunt, massive talons. Wide, cloudy eyes that burn in a way no eyes ever should. A curved, jagged beak opens.

“Roooosé,” the thing croaks.

Rosé shrieks.

It lunges, and she hardly has time to throw her arms over her face before she catches a flash of metal. In a blur, something crashes against the wall, then the ground, there is a resounding _clang_ followed by indignant, abnormal shrieking that grates against her sternum.

When she dares to crack her eyes open again, one of the heretic brothers is there—Al, specifically, the living armor, his hulking form hunched over the thrashing body of the bird creature that is not Cain. One hand has the impostor pinned by the neck, the other pressed hard on its sternum. It chokes and splutters in resistance, but all it can do is thrash its wings uselessly and scratch vainly at the metal surface of the sinner’s vambrace.

“Shhh.” The armor-man’s helmet-head is downturned, and she cannot see those ghostly pinpoints of hellfire that pass for eyes. His (startlingly young) voice has acquired a reassuring touch. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

The creature is beyond human speech and only froths beneath his grip. Then, slowly, it grows still, and then its head lulls to one side, sightless eyes half-closed. They stare at her directly.

She stands there, trembling.

Sighing in a manner that echoes through the emptiness of his hollow body as he releases the creature. It doesn’t stir, and he still doesn’t look up. “Alchemy may seem like a good thing at first, but it can really create some horrible things.”

With a jolt, she realizes he is speaking to her.

“This poor creature is what’s known as a chimera,” he explains. He scoops up the broken, hodgepodge body with a bewildering tenderness, then turns his great metal back to her. Her own horrified reflection stares back at her. “It’s created by transmuting—or combining—one or more animals into one. The more animals you combine, however, the sloppier it gets.”

He sets the body down onto the soft pillows of Cain’s bed. Cain’s bed. Cain’s bed that should be occupied by Cain, not this _thing_ pretending to be Cain.

Creaking, he shifts away, staring at her with ethereal red eyes. “Father Cornello doesn’t strike me as a very studious person. He probably didn’t do any studying on anatomy before he made it—so its whole existence is defined by unnecessary suffering.”

It barely registers, the statement. She can’t take her eyes off the mangle mess of feathers. Alchemy made this, he said. Alchemy, like what he uses. What he and his brother use. What Father Cornello uses.

This doesn’t make sense. Where’s Cain? Where’s her beloved? Why is this _thing_ here in place of her boyfriend? What happened to the person she spoke to last night?

_“How do you know this isn’t another alchemy trick? Like those ‘miracles’ he performs in order to sway that masses?”_

No. No, it can’t be true. Father Cornello—Father Cornello—

_“He lied about that already. Did it ever occur to you that he might be lying about something **else**?”_

...no.

Her vision blurs completely and then she finds herself on the ground, blinking dumbly at the ground strewn with green feathers. Green feathers. Green feathers. Everywhere she looks, there are green feathers. Her legs tremble, even though they’re not holding her up anymore.

“It can’t be... It can’t...” The tears spill over, burning like liquid fire all the way down.

“Rosé.” She looks up sharply. Al looms over her, but despite the intimidating countenance he bears, there is something intrinsically gentle in those hellfire eyes. “Would you like to know the truth?”

She can do nothing except nod.

* * *

Being handcuffed _sucks_ , no questions. Winry’s shoulders ache from being tugged so high for an indefinite amount of time with no reprieve (she remembers reading somewhere that this is considered a form of torture, tying someone’s hands up like this and leaving them to hang like a cut of meat in a butcher’s shop). Her wrists chafe and the handcuffs are _definitely_ rusted, which means there’s a real chance of infection here—forget rude, that’s just _unhygienic_. Plus, there is absolutely nothing to do except stare at the wall and contemplate life, which itself is difficult because the prison cell is so dark she can hardly see the wall, and the darkness makes her think about particularly miserable things.

Like how she got in this situation.

“My nose itches,” she grumbles.

Stupid Ed. Stupid Al. What’s _taking_ them so long?

Right on cue, a scraping noise from the wall at her back reaches her ears. She tries to turn her head for a better vantage point, but her arms are in the way and her human anatomy keeps her from turning her neck far enough. Even when she strains, the only thing she gets out of it is an aching in her tendons. Still—she smirks.

“ _Took_ you long enough.”

For a moment, the scraping stills, then returns with a newfound vigorousness. A voice, muffled, reaches through the stone. “Shut up. I had to get a blueprint of the damn church. Did you know there’s a whole room for praying? Like, what the fuck? I thought the whole _church_ was for praying. What even.”

“I’ve been sitting here all day,” she huffs, mostly playful. “My wrists ache and I can’t even eat. I’m starving.”

Louder. The scraping is insistent for a while, then there is a pause, punctuated by a clap. A crackle, a surge of energy. The sharp, electric smell of transmutation fills the air, and she feels the stone crumble against her back.

“...are you okay?”

The gentleness in the tone catches her off-guard, and it strikes her belatedly that he might have actually been worrying about her. Since she can’t send him a smile, she instead tries to pack all her assurance into her voice. “Don’t worry. I’m a tough girl. Even if they did lay a finger on me, I’d just bite it.”

“Or throw a wrench.”

“Exactly.”

She catches a familiar rustle that she recognizes as belonging to electric cables. “What about your earrings? Did they take those?”

“Nope.” It seemed Cornello didn’t think much of her. Or maybe he simply didn’t pay enough attention to notice what was inscribed upon them. “All there.”

“Then fuck off, you’re fine.”

“Edward Hohenheim, a true poet.” She can’t help but laugh as his irritated huff. “I _know_ I’m fine. I wouldn’t have suggested this if I wasn’t sure it would work.”

“It’d _better_ work.” There is a hiss of pain, punctuated by some heavy curses that sound Xerxean.

Concern flutters in her gut. Forgetting herself, she tries to crane her neck to get a better look, only to be reminded of her physical limitations. “You okay?”

“Fine. I just, kinda, electrocuted myself a little.” She can’t help but wince on his behalf. Ed’s metal arm is a natural conductor and gives any electricity an extra kick, so even mild shocks must be _painful_. “Hold on. I’m gonna transmute my gloves into rubber.”

“No rush.” Cornello sure as hell wasn’t going to finish her off when Rosé was watching, because she was a follower and her word held some weight. But he also hadn’t bothered with Winry last night, just as she suspected. It’s a power move, and an arrogant one. The chances of him getting up at the crack of dawn to deal with one lousy prisoner—and a little girl at that—are pretty slim. “Does Al have it all set up?”

“Last I checked, he was thinking about stealing the bell to use as an amplifier.” She arches a brow—ambitious for Al, especially to do something so obviously illegal. Clearly Ed is a bad influence. The crackle of transmutation is followed by the rustle of more cables. “We split up, so I dunno—fuck! I’m shit at wiring.”

“Want me to do it?”

An annoyed grunt refutes her. “Thought you had to stay handcuffed.”

“I can re-handcuff myself.” Is that a word? “Re-handcuff”? Oh, what the hell. She’s being held captive by an evil cult leader. She can make up words.

“Nah, I got it. Just kicking myself for not asking Al how to do this.”

“Al couldn’t fit in the tunnel,” she points out jovially.

For approximately three seconds, there is absolutely no sound.

“...did you just call me ‘small’?”

Who knew it was hard to shrug with your hands tied? All it does is make her shoulders whine in protest. Still—"A” for effort. “You _are_ small, Ed.”

The flurry of cursing that follows is too fast for her to understand. She can’t even tell if it’s Amestrian or Xerxean, but it finishes with, “When I get outta here I’m gonna punch you!”

“And I will return the favor with my wrench,” she answers smoothly. And he knows she will. She knows he knows. One of the great joys of growing up with someone is that they do not laugh when you threaten them with hardware tools, but instead appropriately run in terror.

He only answers her with more frustrated cursing.

Again, she forgets herself, and her efforts at turning around to look at him only meet with a stone wall. “Are you _sure_ you don’t need help?”

“I’m _fine_.” Despite his stubborn male pride, she does here something spark and he lets out a chirp of satisfaction. “Aha! Got it!”

“Congrats. You’ve learned basic wiring.” She learned that when she was six. Although, she supposes that’s not really a fair comparison. When he was six, Ed was practicing advanced alchemy and learning a(n un)dead language.

She can imagine him sticking his tongue out at her, even if she can’t see it. They’re best friends, after all. Best friends know each other inside and out. “Whatever. Look, I got it working, at least.”

Even if he can’t see it, she hopes he feels her encouraging smile. “Cornello won’t know what hit him.”

“You bet!” His snickering brings to mind a wicked grin and a malicious gleam in those saffron yellow eyes. “And not just _him_. First thing in the morning, people’re gonna be losing their shit over their morning coffee!”

Knowing him means knowing exactly what he’s thinking. She can’t help but groan. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Little bit.”

“You’re evil, Ed.”

“This was _your idea_.”

Which she is already regretting. Lesson one of Edward Hohenheim—anything he enjoys to a malicious degree is inherently bad.

In the distance, something that sounds like old hinges groans. She straightens in alarm, and even though she can’t see Ed, she can feel him tense up behind her. Had they come already? At the crack of dawn? Or had more time passed than she thought?

Ed’s finger pokes at her back. She doesn’t need to look to know that he’s giving her a thumb’s up. The system is online, now. All they need is for Al to get the amplifier up and running and they’re all set.

They’re all set.

* * *

Rosé watches in a daze as Alphonse Hohenheim fiddles with the bell. It feels like she and the world have finally separated, like partners who have engaged in one fight too many and finally realized that their relationship was doomed from the start.

She’s not entirely sure why she’s here—perhaps the possessed suit of armor simply wants her here as a hostage, should Father Cornello try to come after him in retribution. Maybe he just wants someone to watch, or to keep him company. She does not know, nor does she care. It doesn’t matter. Nothing odoes.

From their spot on the Church’s roof where they perch, overlooking the city, all of Liore sprawls out. The light of dawn is just beginning to touch it, and so for the most part it is shrouded in a darkness that makes it look gloomy and lonesome and desolate. It looks as though the life has been sucked out of it, leaving only an empty husk.

 _How fitting_ , she thinks bitterly. _How fitting._

“What was he like?” Al asks suddenly.

Dully surprised, she looks up from her knees. He has paused tracing chalk patterns around the bell in favor of staring at her with an impossible expression of concern. Such an immobile face should not be so expressive. It simply doesn’t add up.

“Who?” she asks, even though she already knows.

“Your boyfriend.”

Silence lapses over them.

How is she supposed to explain to him, the sort of man her Cain was? How can she explain the taste of his lips against hers, like morning dew on the waxy petals of a desert cactus? His tender touch as he held her and swung her around, as though she were weightless in his arms? Dare she pour her heart out about the rough callouses on his hands or his deep, warm laugh that rang all the way up to the heavens? It was too intimate, surely, to tell this stranger about the nights they spent on the balcony, her folded into the crook of his arms, so small against the broadness of his shoulders as his breath tickled against her ears and her hair.

When they first met, that sultry autumn evening after she had just dyed her hair primrose pink to match the flowers left at her doorstep, the sender unknown until she stumbled upon him that evening and he babbled incoherently for an hour straight, much to her delight. Their first date by candlelight, how the firelight played with his dark hair and his blue, blue eyes. Months later, when they spent a whole night talking about their dreams, and shooting stars, and running away without a plan in mind, just them and the open road and two hands linked together for all infinity.

She doesn’t want to tell a stranger this.

Perhaps even sinners understand the meaning of the word “personal”, because Al turns away to resume his work.

Her gaze falls back to her knees. More than ever, the cold air numbs her.

“You must have loved him a lot,” Al says quietly. She doesn’t look up this time, and neither does she. The air flashes with blue light and shudders with energy. “Which means he must have been a good man.”

Of course he was—

_“The whole world can be ours, Rosé.” His eyes sparkled like starlight, and the way he said her name was like poetry put to sound. Everyone else tripped over her name, found it odd on their tongue, but it flowed from him as naturally as breathing. “We just have to take it.”_

—but then he got sick.

“I know how you feel.” Al slowly turns the bell onto its side. “Our dad was a good man, too.”

Rosé doesn’t say anything.

Beneath them, the strengthening of light creeps across the town. Boxy buildings glow dully in the breaking dawn, and shadows grow long, striping shapes across the streets. The people of Liore are early risers, eager to revel in the coolness that remains in the air from a sunless night.

“His name was Van Hohenheim,” he goes on absently, but there is still a touch of something reverent and aching as his voice cradles the name. “He was an alchemist too. Brother and I first picked it up from him, actually. For the first few years, he taught us everything he knew. We were happy to learn from him, too—we loved alchemy, and we loved that he loved it. Alchemy, well... it was sort of the thing that bound us all together.

“Then he got sick. And he died. I was almost eight, and Brother just turned nine. We were alone, and we didn’t have anyone.”

Something like indignance stirs in her belly at that. Maybe it is because she knows the pain of losing parents young, or maybe because it’s insulting to think that heretics such as the Hohenheim brothers can possibly share tragedy like her own. Whatever the case, whatever the reason, she raises her head a little in defiance.

“What about your mother?” The question comes out a little harsher than she intended, but she does not amend it, nor does she wince from guilt. “Where was she?”

This gives Al pause. He tilts his helmet up to the lightening sky, an action that is almost contemplative in nature. “I don’t know. She left home when I was little. We haven’t really heard from her since.”

Oh.

Loss is one thing. Abandonment is another. It’s a completely different kind of pain, much more twisted and raw and complex—because it is intentional, purposeful in its callousness. It wreaks a much deeper wound.

Refusing to show sympathy (as though such blighted people deserve such a thing), she instead aims her gaze at the horizon. The sun rises with a vein of molten golden at its heels. In the juncture between night and day, a deep pinkish-violet glow forms. Cain used to say her eyes were like the sunrise, like that interval where light rises to conquer the darkness. Shy and awkward, but he had a way with words.

“Our father was our only parent,” Al goes on. He is threading cables into the bell’s back with careful precision that shouldn’t be possible for such large hands. “He wasn’t perfect—he was scatterbrained and awkward and he could be a little childish sometimes—but we loved him more than anything else in the world. So... we tried to bring him back.”

Another lapse of silence. She keeps her eyes on the daybreak.

“It didn’t work,” she says. There’s no question. She remembers his brother’s cruel smile as he brandished those ungodly steel limbs of his.

“No.” The rue in his voice is thick. “Worse than that. It rebound on us—that’s when an alchemic equation doesn’t meet Equivalent Exchange. When that happens, the reaction actually takes from the alchemist performing it.”

A chill runs down her spine.

“Brother lost his leg. I lost my whole body.” She turns back to him in surprise. His back is to her, and it gives an offensively bright glare in the strengthening sunlight. “I don’t remember exactly what happened. The only thing I _do_ remember, with distinct clarity, is waking up in this body to find Brother in a pool of his own blood.”

Great Leto almighty.

He pauses again, and then turns to her. With his downturned gaze and the hunching of his spiked shoulders, she almost thinks him sheepish. “It’s probably better if I give you a visual... um, if I take my helmet off, will you scream?”

The memory of his vacuous insides sends a fresh skitter of unease through her, but she swallows and refuses to show it. She will not show her fear. “No.”

For a moment, he eyes her contemplatively. Then, deliberately slow, he raises his hands, and removes the helmet.

“Look at the back.” His voice echoes loudly through the metal shell. Without the helmet as a cap, the sound spills out. She tries not to wince. “What do you see?”

Trying to muster her nerves, she swallows and peers into the shadows that fill the empty space. There, nearly imperceptible on the back of the armor, near the lip of the cuirass—a strange pattern is traced in something brown and chipped-looking.

She’s never seen a pattern like that in her life. A perfect circle, a geometric pattern involving many triangles, and a single, wavy sigil in the center. “What is that?”

“A seal.” Al replaces his helmet. Briefly, she wonders how he can even see without it. Or speak. He doesn’t have a mouth. “Brother drew it in his own blood.”

Her heart stops.

Either she is masterful at hiding the horror budding within her ribcage, or he is just being gracious enough not to pay it any mind, because he turns back to the bell. “He gave up his arm to bind my soul to this armor. He was probably delirious from pain and already half-dead from blood loss—but he still risked his life to save mine.”

Again, oh.

_“Take a **good** , long look, Rosie!”_

“And your father?” Her mouth is dry as she watches him heft the bell with inhuman strength. She wets her lips. “If it didn’t work—what happened to him?”

He pauses, back is to her. Her eyes ache with a now-familiar rawness, but she won’t cry. She has no tears anymore.

“It wasn’t human, what we made.” His voice is low, and unfathomably dark. She can feel the turbulent storm bubbling beneath the surface, the pain and the grief and the rue and the twinge of anger. “The theory was perfect—but it didn’t work.”

No.

“ _We_ were the ones who were wrong.”

_“Like I said before—Icarus went ‘ **splat’**.”_

Her hands are shaking. She wraps her arms around her knees and tugs them up close to her chest.

“The dead don’t come back Rosé. Ever.”

She’d been wrong to think her eyes were all dried up. For the third time, tears spill over, but this time she does not sob or weep. She only sits there and lets them fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so.
> 
> I know in canon Rosé's relationship with her dead boyfriend isn't really emphasized BUT IT SHOULD BE BECAUSE IT'S IMPORTANT. She _loves_ this guy so much that she wants to _bring him back from the dead_. And yes, you could argue that it's more about her being alone and having no one, but she probably _did_ care about him in the beginning. Some translations say they were ENGAGED, dammit! People need to recognize that this guy, whoever he was, did have an impact on her character. So there.
> 
> Again, feel free to ask any questions!
> 
> Sincerely,  
> The Immortal Moon


	4. Two Strong Legs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know the people usually enjoys your nice, creepy sermons, but I figured they’d enjoy the uncut version even more.” Ed sits up straighter and uncrosses his legs. “By the by, Liore, this broadcast is brought to you by Edward Hohenheim, the Fullmetal Alchemist. You all have a _nice day_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: At the beginning, there's mentions of... implications here that might make people uncomfortable, as well as some misogynistic language. Reader discretion is advised.

_“I never did give anyone hell. I just told the truth and they thought it was hell.”_  
—Harry S. Truman

 

Cornello stalks into the prison cell with an unmistakably smug curl to his lip. Winry clenches her hands into fists, the lines of muscles tightening in anticipation. Okay, go time people. Ed had set up the mike and, hopefully, Al has the speakers up and running.

_Here we go._

She breathes in deep, then exhales in a sigh. Head slumped down, eyes on the ground, picture of defeat. Pretend you are broken and there is no hope of rescue in sight. “So. Have you come here to kill me?”

Rather than answer her, Cornello instead eyes the abandoned tray her feet. The soup has long since turned cold and the bread has gone stale. “You’ve refused my generous offer of food. How wasteful.”

“It’s hardly generous when it’s just bread and broth,” she retorts. “And I’m _handcuffed to a wall_.”

“Hardly an excuse.” He steps forward, then, with a sudden sweep of the leg, sends the tray clattering across the floor. She jumps in alarm. “Ungrateful bitch.”

Despite knowing fully well that she could ditch the handcuffs if needed, she cannot help the flutter of unease in her chest. She shifts, back pressed against the wall. The stone is cool through the fabric of her shirt.

“You really _are_ going to kill me, aren’t you?” Thankfully, her voice does not tremble or stutter.

“Oh _calm_ yourself, little girl.” She doesn’t like the emphasis he puts on “calm”, the disgusting sneer that he adds to it. It makes her skin crawl. He leers down at her. “I don’t think we have to resort to such drastic measures, do we?”

...what the hell?

“A pretty girl like you? Oh, that’d be such a waste.” He leans down a little. The look in his eyes sends an uneasy lump to her throat. “Surely we can come to some... _other_ arrangement.”

The words are enough to make her wary, but then his hand falls onto her knee, gently inching its way up the length of her thigh—and that is enough to make her start screaming.

Outrage ignites inside her belly. It’s hot, and blazing, and the oily coils of smoke it gives off rise up in her throat and sting like disgust. If she looks down, she could see the bloody glint of the Philosopher’s Stone set into his ring, can feel the cool metal of it against her skin. Everything they have been search for, for so long, and it is right there, unbelievably close, sending a nauseating churning in her stomach. Breathing in sharply to block out the sensation, she wets her mouth, leans her head back—

—and spits right in his face.

His indignant screech fills the cell, but it gets his hand off her leg, so it’s worth having her eardrums blasted.

With hiss of fury, he swipes the loogie off his forehead. “You _cunt_ —”

“Maybe keep your hands to yourself, you pervert!” she snarls in return. She’ll need at _least_ three showers just to wash his slimy touch off.

All of a sudden, his hand is around her throat and the back of skull clacks against the wall. She yelps as her vision throbs somewhere between dark and light and his face is right in front of her. The rank smell of his breath makes her wince.

“You little—” His hand squeezes. She chokes on a yelp. “Maybe I should kill you right now—quick and easy. No one will even bat an eyelash!”

She tries not to scream. Calm down, calm down, you are _safe_. Breathe, Rockbell. Ed is around here somewhere, lingering with the promise to intervene at the first sign of something she can’t handle. But she can handle this. Yes, fear is swirling around in her lungs like a cold mist, and her blood is frosting inside her veins. Yes, there’s a hand on her throat, and that hand belongs to a psycho cult leader. But Winry Rockbell is nothing if not familiar with terror—an occupational hazard that comes with traveling alongside a pair of crazy alchemist brothers—and knows how to handle it, how to bury it beneath her skin so that her mind can continue to work and race behind the scenes. It’s a handy little skill that she’s perfected over the years. Just because you’re scared does not mean you have to give in.

Besides—she can’t freeze up now. This is her plan. The mike is still on. She still needs to wring as much out of him as possible.

“Do really think no one will care?” she manages. His grip slackens in surprise, and she takes the opportunity to breathe in sharply. “People will _notice_ —notice that I’m not _here_ —they’ll find my body—”

“True,” he cedes. Thankfully, it gets him to completely release her neck, and she is slightly ashamed to say that the first thing she does is slump forward and gasp. “But I can just blame it on those companions of yours.”

“ _What_?” He didn’t squeeze too hard, and so her throat doesn’t ache as much as it probably could have. If bruises are going to form, they’ll heal quickly. Still, there is a soreness there that is only worsened by her exclamation. A familiar stinging sensation pokes at her eyes.

“Oh yes.” Cornello straightens with a particularly malicious grin. If she were not handcuffed, she would be bashing his face in with her trusty wrench. “They slipped past the guards and did you in after you turned to the Church, begging me to take you in and save you from those malevolent heathens. They were rightfully outraged, and took this outrage out on your body—it turns up the courtyard as a bloody, mangled corpse. A true testament to their sadism.”

The pounding of her heartbeat is not so much from fear as it is from fury. It’s one thing to threaten her. It’s another thing to _use_ her to threaten Ed and Al. “And you think people are honestly going to _buy_ that load of bullshit?”

Her voice must be too hoarse to have the desired force behind it. Between that and his blatant disregard of her, he throws his head back and laughs to the ceiling. “You’d be amazed at the bullshit these ignorant fools buy! They foolishly believe my alchemy is miraculous simply because they are too stupidly ignorant! And besides—I am a God to them! They revere me as a holy man, as their savior—I can do no wrong in their eyes! They worship the very ground I walk upon and believe everything I tell them like the dumb sheep they are!”

He continues to laugh for a while, and Winry just blinks at him, suddenly weary beyond all words. How did she end up in prison with a guy that sounds like the villains on Sunday radio specials? The damn mike better be picking this all up or she’s going to sue Ed for acute psychological distress.

“Granted, I will need to be rid of Rosé,” the false priest muses. “She’s seen too much. Although, she’s probably gone and killed herself already, if she went to check on the chimera. It still amazes me that these people _honestly_ believe the dead can be brought back to life! How absolutely _thick_ can these people be?”

Indignance rises in her bruising throat. It’s not just indignance on behalf of the Liori people, although it is mostly that. It’s the same feeling she got when Ed was badmouthing them, when he was muttering sulkily about how desperation caused people to lose their wits. And all she could think about was the emptiness in Ed’s eyes as he lay sprawled in the hospital bed in the back room of her house, sans two limbs.

“How _dare_ you.” That righteous indignation pounds its way through her blood, makes it stir and smolder. And yes, she is crying, but she is not ashamed of her tears. It is alright to cry when you are furious or in pain, and right now she is both. “How can you _say_ such horrible things? These people are desperate and hurting and grieving! How _dare_ you look down on them! How dare you, when they are in the midst of recovering from such a horrible tragedy?”

But he only smiles thinly. It is just as disgusting as the rest of him. “Yes, rather _convenient_ , that.”

A slow, cold shudder makes its way down her spine. The tears spill faster as she blinks. “You... You didn’t...”

“Me? Oh no. What do you take me for?” He holds his hands up placating me and gives a low, horrible chuckle that has her skin crawling. “As if I’d handle such disgusting work as that.”

“But you were involved,” she says. It’s not a question. Good God. Good _God_. Biological warfare. That—that’s just absolutely _sick_.

Again, he gives that horrible chuckle. It’s revolting. _He’s_ revolting. His very presence makes her want to shrivel up and vomit in a corner. “I merely saw an opportune situation and capitalized on it. Nothing more.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“As if your lowly opinion even matters.” Asshole.

“You won’t get away with this.”

“And who do you think those thick desert bumpkins are going to believe?” The smile he gives her is probably meant to strike helplessness into her heart. “A respected member of the community, or a mewling quim?”

Fighting every instinct to scream and to spit in his face again, Winry bows her head. “...you. They’ll believe you.”

_You and everything you’ve just said._

“Good girl,” Cornello says approvingly. She clenches her teeth.

The stone walls suddenly rattle and the fire of the torches quiver dangerously. Whatever it is that sounded in the distance, it was booming and loud enough for the sound waves to travel all the way down to lower level. The false priest lets out a shout of surprise as he turns to the door. Winry looks up sharply, but she has to bite her lip hard to keep from groaning.

_Knowing him, he did something unnecessarily destructive. Sigh._

Snarling a curse and something along the lines of “I’ll deal with you _later_ ”, Cornello storms out of the room. Behind him, the door slams shut so loudly that it makes the stone walls tremble.

Winry doesn’t bother waiting until the echo has faded from the air before she turns to the handcuffs holding her wrists in place. The manacles are completely coated in a thick layer of crusty red rust, which makes it a real wonder how they were even opening in the first place, much less snapped closed around her wrists. Thankfully, though, Cornello had not looked too closely at her earrings, nor had the guards been well-versed enough in alchemy to understand the miniscule circles that had been traced into their shiny silver surface.

An electric jolt of energy shoots up her spine and tingles in her ears. In her peripheral, she catches a flash of icy blue sparks.

**(CEMENTITE NICKLE SILICON IRON OXIDE—TRANSMUTE)**

The manacles click open. With a relieved sigh, she lowers her hands and massages her wrists. To her dismay, she finds that they have left bruises. A shower isn’t going to wash _those_ off.

* * *

Father Bastard bursts into the broadcast room to find Ed splayed casually on the palm of the massive Leto statue he found in the prayer-chamber. Or whatever the hell it’s called. He’s not a church person and doesn’t really know the names for everything. Dad was a scientist and never bothered with Sunday school, so they hadn’t either—even less so after the man had passed. The only thing Ed really knows are “nave” and “clerestory”.

Anyway, the hand is punched through the floor, the broken hardwood boards shattered and sticking up, adding a jaggedness to the hole that gives it the appearance of a toothy maw. The thumb makes a good place for Ed to rest his elbow, and the hands are good for leaning against. Somewhere in the corner, the desk has been thrown aside by the impact, leaving dents in the wall and has left the desk itself a splintered mass of busted wood. Lots and lots of busted wood. He considers this a successful session of mayhem.

“Wow. Two minutes.” Ed smirks at the outrage on the bastard’s face. He didn’t know that shade of red even _existed_. “Who knew you could run so fast for someone so old and fat?”

“You damned punk,” the bastard hisses, advancing. Did he have a cane yesterday? Ed doesn’t think he had a cane yesterday. Huh. “You little—”

Ignoring him, Ed crosses his legs, flesh over metal. “Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard worse swears from old ladies. Hey, are you gonna give me my friend back or what?”

“You’re in no position to make demands!” Clearly the rush here winded the old bastard, because he keeps leaning on his cane. Absently, Ed finds his eyes drawn to the ring on his finger. He wonders which hand the bastard used to fondle Winry—and then he has to stop wondering otherwise he will absolutely maul him. “I have you at my mercy! At the snap of my fingers, I could have this town ready to tear you apart, screw by screw!”

If anyone did try to dismantle his automail, Winry would whip out her wrench and make them pay. Ed has nothing to fear in that regard. “Sure. I’m supposed to believe these people are wrapped around your fingers _that_ tightly.”

“They believe in me completely!” Father Bastard shouts with manic glee. “Do you know how hard I’ve worked, how many idiotic confessions I’ve had to endure, just to create this mass of mindless followers? Oh, it was tedious! It was absolute torture! But it worked—oh did it work! Now I have an entire army ready to do my bidding at the drop of a hat!”

“Army, huh?” Ed repeats. He’s trying to sound disinterested, he really is. But this guy _laid his hands on Winry_ and talked about raising the dead and apparently poisoned the drinking water or some shit. Ed’s blood is absolutely _boiling_.

“Yes! An army!” The grin is unnerving. On the bright side, he’s not leaning so heavily on his cane. “An army of mindless followers who obey me completely! They are ready to die for me without fear or hesitation! Soon, I shall sweep into the capital, and this country shall be mine! MINE!”

He follows that up with a maniacal laugh that sounds like it came straight out of a radio show. And the bastard doesn’t even notice the black cables running across the floor. How stupid _is_ this guy?

“So... world domination. That’s your master plan.”

Clearly Ed is quite good at playing disinterested, because the laughter dies and Father Bastard levels him with a frustrated glare. “Hey! Don’t look at me all bored! I know the military sent you down here to ruin my operation. Even they quake in their boots at the thought of me! Hah!”

“You’re really not that important,” Ed says darkly, and finds himself once again wrestling with the urge to maul this guy. Hell, he hasn’t even called Ed sh— _untall_ —and Ed wants to absolutely murder him. “The military isn’t all the interested in guys who like feeling up fifteen-year-old girls for fun.”

Father Bastard stops. Blinks. Bewilderment overtakes his villainous mania. “How—What are you—”

“You told me yourself. A little while ago.” It is with an absolutely delicious sense of satisfaction that Ed pulls the operating switch out from behind his back, and points to the microphone taped to the ceiling. “In fact, you told the whole fucking city, you sick pervert.”

Ever so slowly, the guy looks up. The horror that blooms there is absolutely _delicious_. “You—That’s— _How long has that thing been on_?!”

Ed _grins_. “The whole fucking time.”

Bastard starts trembling all over, still staring at the ceiling in shock.

“I know the people usually enjoys your nice, creepy sermons, but I figured they’d enjoy the uncut version even more.” Ed sits up straighter and uncrosses his legs. “By the by, Liore, this broadcast is brought to you by Edward Hohenheim, the Fullmetal Alchemist. You all have a _nice day_.”

He clicks the broadcast off.

When the bastard turns back to him, his face is positively murderous.

“So. Are you gonna hand over the Stone, or—”

Scarlet light flares and crackles. Ed watches dumbly as the wooden cane is transformed into a rather massive metal machine gun (specifically it’s an Ares Defense Shrike 5.56— _wow_ , he needs to spend less time around Mustang), which the enraged not-priest then proceeds to aim directly at Ed.

“—[shit.]”

Luckily for Ed, his reflexes are quick and he manages to leap out of the way just as the stone palm ends up peppered with bullet holes.

Seeing as there’s a maniac with gun standing in the only entryway, Ed has no choice but to transmute his own doors. He doesn’t give the design much thought (symptom of being chased by bullets), so they’re unbearably plain and lack any hint of panache (oh, how _embarrassing_ ) as he throws them open and takes off running.

The doors lead him to another room, which leads him to a hall. He runs as fast as he can, footsteps uneven, the ground blurring. It’s times like this when he really laments having a leg made of metal, because _damn_ is it heavy.

Not that he’s going to let it slow him down. The sound of gunfire chases him.

He turns the corner and nearly plows right into Winry.

“Ed!” Luckily for the both of them, Ed has very quick reflexes and he recovers from his shock in time to hook Winry’s arm with his. Hell, he doesn’t even slow down, just keeps running and drags her along with him. “Whoa! What’s going on?”

“Can’t talk. Baldy’s got a gun.”

“ _What_?”

As if on cue, more gunfire sounds from behind them.

Growling in frustration, he pulls her into a corner and transmutes a wall. Just in time, too, because another round of bullets pounds against the stone. Imagine if it hadn’t been there. Scary.

“Why are you _always_ being chased by psychos with guns?” Winry demands, back pressed against the wall and levelling him with an undeservingly malevolent glare.

If he was confident that he could transmute a slit to check on the bastard without getting shot, he would. But he’s not, so, staying ducked on the floor it is. “What do you want me to say?”

“That you have a _problem_!”

“ _I’m_ not the one with the goddamn gun!”

A bullet punches through the stone. Wow. Okay. Ed grabs her arm and takes off running again.

Eventually, they end up stumbling back into the nave, with all the nice wooden pews and the image of Leto giving him the Dad Stare. Like, _this is all your fault, you damned brat. Own the hell up to it_.

It’s really a wonder why he hates religion. Really.

Okay. New plan. Think, Ed. Father Bastard probably doesn’t have same expertise in metals and minerals that he and Al have, so there’s a good chance the composition of that gun isn’t too stable. Not in comparison to his automail.

“Stick to the wall,” he orders. Winry doesn’t protest and immediately flattens herself against the wall. He does the same, transmuting his automail into a blade and pointedly ignoring the _you are messing with my masterpiece_  glare she aims at him. Their lives are in danger, and she’s griping about something as trivial as that. Unbelievable, this woman.

No bullets hail Father Bastard’s arrival, just angry footsteps and ragged panting. The machine gun is right next to Ed’s face, and by virtue of facing forward, the old man doesn’t see him until after Ed has taken a swipe at his weapon.

As he predicted, Winry’s craftsmanship is far superior to Cornello’s hastily made contraption. The blade slices it clean through.

By the time the bastard registers Ed’s presence, his gun is neutralized and he has a blade to his throat. He squeaks like a pig. The half of the gun with the barrel clatters against the tile.

“Okay, pal.” After dodging bullets and fighting chimeras and listening to this guy try to cop a feel with his best friend, Ed is understandably _pissed_. No, pissed is an understatement. He’s reached that level of pissed where you become absolutely _done_ with everything. It ends _now_ , goddammit. “Just _hand over the Stone_.”

Instead of defeat, a wild desperation overtakes the not-priest’s features. “As if I’d be defeated by the likes of you!”

His ringed hand comes down hard on the remaining gun-half. A thick, ghastly red glow fills the air and the scent of transmutation is oddly bitter as it gets caught in Ed’s throat. It’s so strong and sudden that he finds himself drawing back in alarm, anticipating another hail of bullets—

But instead he hears a horrible _squick_ ing noise, followed by Cornello’s scream.

When the glow fades, Winry lets out a short squeal. In his peripheral, he watches her eyes widen and her hand reach up to cover her mouth, but he is not paying too much attention to her, dismissive as that might sound. He is too busy eyeing the twisted monstrosity that has become of Cornello’s arm. Flesh and metal have twisted together to make a gnarled, unsightly mass, with metal that juts out at the elbow and bullets that pepper the skin and his fingers half-melded into a barrel. Blood

Ed’s heart thumps horrifically loud in his ears. _A rebound? From a Philosopher’s Stone?_

“Oh my God,” Winry whispers hoarsely.

“Okay.” His heart is still very, very loud. He can hardly hear himself think, hardly hear himself speak. “Okay. Just—hand over the fucking Stone—”

“I won’t be disgraced like this!” the bastard priest shrieks. The ring glows again—

And he gets bigger. And bigger. The fabric of his robes tear as his muscles bulge and skin stretches around transmutation marks and veins pop and—

“ _Ed_!” This time it’s Winry who grabs his wrist and yanks him out of the way. Good thing, too, because the monstrous _thing_ that used to be Father Cornello roars and swings its massive fist. There’s a resounding crash as it slams into the ground. They duck into the pews.

“[The colonel owes me _so damn_ _much_!]” he snarls as he claps, hard enough for his flesh palm to sting. The thing wades over to them, flattening the pew just in front of them. Luckily, Winry is already on her knees and hands splayed across the back of the pew in front of them, one of the arrays on her many earrings flashes and crackles.

The splintered edges of the pew elongates and stretches to form vine-line constructions that entangle themselves around the thing’s thick legs (how lucky are they that the bastard’s underwear didn’t tear?). It roars in fury and attempts to charge at them with swinging fists, but the bigger the are, the harder they fall, and it crashes into the ground with an earthshaking _thud_.

“ _Told_ you the wood arrays were a good idea,” she gloats. There’s sweat on her brow and fatigue in the lines of her face, but she still has the strength to look smug.

He only huffs and hits the ground.

From behind, the likeness of Leto ripples to life just as the thing stumbles shakily up to its feet, a look of fury flaring in those ominously glowing eyes. Before it can open its mouth to roar, though, Leto’s stone fist comes barrelling out of the back wall and there is a resounding _crack_ as it strikes the side of not-Cornello’s face. The force sends it flying back and collapsing into the wall with a crash that booms against Ed’s eardrums, to the point where he winces. Spiderweb cracks spread around the indent the groaning creature makes, then steadily widen, widen, widen as they travel deeper into the stone. He watches, blinking, as they reach the ceiling—

“Ed.” Winry’s voice is pitchily sharp.

“One step ahead of you.” Ed claps **(SILICA ALUMINA POTASSIUM OXIDE—CALCIUM CARBONATE DOLOMITE—SILICA ALUMINA IRON OXIDE— _TRANSMUTE_ )** and slams his hands against the floor. Stone sheets quickly explode outwards to form a makeshift tent just as the ceiling collapses and the air fills with cloudy white dust.

* * *

They’re coming around the side of the Church when the front explodes into a deafening wave of noise and flying debris. There’s no fire or smoke, but the enormous cloud of dust that billows out is close enough smoke. Al does not jump, because again, his body is not made for physically showing emotions. Still, if he could blink in alarm, he probably would.

“What was _that_?” Rosé shrieks.

Debris flies out and skitters down the steps. Distant shouting, furious and booming, like a thunderclap signalling the storm. Al knows that voice. He tries and fails to stifle a groan.

Upon reaching the front of the steps, Rosé trailing urgently at his heels, they find Brother standing at the top of the steps, glaring down at a prone, scarcely-clothed Father Cornello, his hackles raised and a snarl on his face. It is only by the grace of Winry’s presence, fluttering just behind him, her ponytail coming loose and vanilla hair cascading loosely down her shoulders as she says something in a placating tone. With his sleeve still horrendously shredded, Brother’s automail arm glimmers painfully bright beneath the early morning, as though rebelling against the very light itself by throwing it back.

There’s terror in the way Father Cornello holds himself. The veins in his neck are strangely engorged, and his arm is a twisted, mangled monstrosity of half-steel and half oozing flesh that couldn’t possibly occur naturally. Only alchemy gone wrong would possibly warp the body so terribly—but the only way such a thing could occur, outside of it being afflicted upon the man by either Winry or Brother (an impossibility if there ever was one), is a nasty rebound. But that of course, doesn’t make sense. Father Cornello has a Philosopher’s Stone, so how...?

“So what.” There’s something dreadfully flat about Brother’s tone, a silent fury that vibrates beneath. It’s more terrifying than all the times Al’s ever heard him shout or scream or curse. “After all that—poisoning the town, making all those false promises, trying to kill us, attempting to _choke Winry_ —”

At this, Winry jerks forward, snatching the elbow of Brother’s flesh arm. Al suddenly realizes, with a sudden surge of sheer rage, that there is a faint but large bruise forming on her throat—vaguely hand-shaped. “Ed—”

“—and you’ve got the _nerve_ to tell me that the Stone’s a fucking _fake_?”

Behind him, Rosé gasps softly. She seems content to shield herself behind him, and though he can’t tear his eyes off the scene, he can feel the confusion radiating out from her, intermingled with wariness. Al barely notices, though—the world seems to slow into something dull and brittle and sluggish. He thinks the very ground beneath his feet might crumble like ash.

“Please!” Cornello’s voice is whiny and pathetic, trembling with unadulterated fear. “Have mercy! I’m nothing without the Stone—I’m—”

Brother jerks his arm free from Winry’s grip and takes a menacing step forward. All Al can see of him is the bristling of his shoulders and the inky spill of too-black hair, but he can imagine the dark smolder in his eyes. “Get. The fuck. _Outta my sight_.”

Without hesitation, Cornello scrabbles away as fast as can possibly be achieved by a fat man with a mutilated arm. Long after he’s vanished from sight, Brother’s shoulders tremble violently, then suddenly sag, as if the all life has just been leached out. Winry looks like she wants to reach out and comfort him, but something holds her back, a reluctance that keeps her rooted in place.

She turns and immediately notices Al there. He has to look away because the apology in her eyes is too painful.

* * *

With a level of disinterest that can only be afforded to inhuman creatures or to God Himself, Lust watches the aftermath unfold from where she stands atop the bell tower. The lip of the stone is solid against her elbows, and she finds herself unbearably bored as she cradles her chin in her interlocked hands.

Beneath her, the humans go through the familiar motions of pain and grief and betrayal. It is only two that manage to catch what little interest she bothers to afford such repugnant creatures. Only two are worth taking note. Only two are candidates for sacrifice, after all.

The Fullmetal Alchemist stands on the stone steps of the Church’s ruins as he speaks to his armored brother. Lust can make a guess at what the conversation involves—the fact that he has not emerged with the Philosopher’s Stone gleaming brilliantly in hand says enough. Cornello must have worn it out, the fool that he is. And it seems her guess is correct, from the way the armored one’s head lowers in something that might, in a flesh-and-blood human, be disappointment. It is vaguely fascinating to consider how body language might translate when using an inhuman body, but, well, that is a triviality, and Lust does not waste her time with trivialities.

Speaking of trivialities, the blonde girl at Fullmetal’s side has a hand on his flesh shoulder. Even with her advanced hearing, Lust cannot make out her words, nor does she care to. It is likely some baseless platitude about hope and encouragement and keeping up the good fight. Humans are so stupid. So predictable. So stupidly predictable.

Then the real show begins. The dark-haired girl, a native no doubt, who had remained silently at the armored brother’s side suddenly bursts into a fit of hysterics. She runs at Fullmetal and starts screaming, pounding against his chest with tears running down her face. Again, Lust cannot make out what she is saying, but this _is_ something she wishes she were privy to. It sounds deliciously destructive. That was truly when humans, stupid and simple creatures that they were, became the most entertaining.

 _You played your part to a tee, boy_ , Lust muses absently as Fullmetal catches the native’s wrist with his steel hand. _The best way to plunge someone into despair is to first give them hope, and then rip it away from them._

When the Mistress first proposed the plan, Lust had been admittedly skeptical. But now she saw the wisdom in her creator’s choices. Introducing tragedy was simply not enough. First you must have tragedy, then false hope, and then despair. From despair and the knowledge that the hope from before was false, outrage was borne. Already in the distance, she can see the natives taking up arms, likely with intent to storm the Church in search of their false prophet. Perhaps Cornello would be hanged. Perhaps it would be a public spectacle. That sounded just lovely.

Either way, a riot would soon sweep the desert streets. Fullmetal better get the hell out of here. She’d rather not have to reveal herself just to save his infantile life.

Well, technically, she already revealed herself. That was an arrogant move on her part, she’ll admit. But it wasn’t as though he saw her ouroboros, nor was he likely to recall her face—not after all that has just transpired. And it was worth it to get a closer look at the interactions between them. It allowed her to determine that the blonde girl, though not a crucial component to their plan, could easily be used as... motivation, shall we say, should either of the brothers grow too unruly.

Whatever Fullmetal says to the native girl has her falling to her knees. She pulls Fullmetal down with her—which is appropriate, really. Humans only know how to fall, how to drag others down in their own despair. Misery loves company, they say.

To her surprise, Fullmetal untangles the native’s grip on his shirt and stands. He leaves her there, collapsed on the steps, and simply walks away from her.

Lust quirks a brow at that. Oh ho! Who knew he had the capacity for cruelty? Perhaps she misjudged him.

Both the armored boy and the irrelevant blonde attempt to say something to the native, but the girl remains stubbornly sprawled on the steps. Too crushed by the weight of her own despair. Pathetic.

“Envy would love this,” she finds herself murmuring, only to grimace a moment later. Yes, they would—but that would mean they would have to be here, and, well.

It was for the best that they weren’t.

“Envy?” A fearful whimper from behind draws Lust’s attention to her pudgy companion. Wide, guileless eyes meet her own, and even if there is a distinct lack of intelligence, she sees the terror there. You don’t need cleverness to know fear. “Envy’s here?”

“No, Gluttony.” She turns away. She isn’t entirely sure why her brother clings to her presence so tightly, but it would be a lie to say that she doesn’t appreciate the company. “Envy’s not here.”

A pudgy hand tugs at her dress. My, he could be so tedious sometimes. “You promise?”

“Yes,” she sighs, trying to muster patience and not snap. Snapping is beneath her. They are in control of their emotion in a way that humans are not. “I promise. Envy is not here. Not for now, anyway.”

The grip on her dress relaxes. Good. “I don’t like Envy. Envy is mean.”

“They are,” she agrees.

“I don’t like Pride, either.”

“So you’ve said.” Her opinions on Pride are fairly neutral. Their positions tend to keep them separated, most of the time, and their interactions have grown significantly more limited over the decades.

“Or _Wrath_.”

Perhaps Gluttony is being a tad more emphatic than necessary, but she understands. Pride she can tolerate and Envy she can endure, perhaps even joke with—Wrath has always been slightly unnerving. She is actually one of the few who can abide Wrath without becoming too disturbed. “Understandable.”

He gives—well, not a thoughtful pause, but as close to one as can be managed by a being of such limited intelligence. “...or Sloth.”

 _This_ has her quirking her brow. “No?”

“Uh-uh.” He shakes his head at her, eyes big and dopey. “He’s weird.”

Well. “Weird” is certainly one way of putting it, although a subtler way is “different”. In a way, they are all unique, each made specifically and tailored for a patented purpose in mind. Still, as far as oddness goes, Sloth is definitely the winner there, and remains a mystery. Lust is still reserving her opinion on her younger brother.

She turns her attention back to the trio, but they’ve already vanished from sight. Hm. Probably for the better. If Fullmetal were to get involved in the still-forming riot, he might do something stupid like try to talk the natives down, and that could end tragically in either of two ways. One, he’s killed, which means hunting for a new sacrifice, or two, he manages to placate them, which would mean all their hard work would have gone to waste.

Speaking of which. Straightening and wiping the miniscule filth from her sleek black gloves, Lust turns. “Come, Gluttony. We must report.”

“Report to Mother?” Gluttony asks, even though he is well aware how the Mistress despises being called “mother”. Lust has grown weary of continually correcting him.

“Yes.” They needed to let her know that Central forces need to get involved immediately, before Fullmetal makes his report in the East and the gentler forces are dispatched to provide succour. “I think she’ll be very pleased.”

And because she has turned away, Lust does not see the naïve girl slowly but steady rise back to her feet. Her legs may have trembled, but they also hold firm.

* * *

_“Stand up. You have two strong legs. Use them.”_

It hurts. Every inch of Rosé hurts. Her eyes burn with tears and her feet ache from running and her lungs ache from sobbing so hard that it rattled her ribcage. She can’t remember ever crying as much as she has in the span of these past two days, not even when Cain left this world and her behind in it.

His golden eyes burn into her. They’re like the sun. You get too close and you burn, but it’s still so bright and inviting—the sun, not his eyes. He made it every clear with just one look how badly he could scorch you, if he wished.

_“It’s more than I have, and I’m still standing.”_

She thinks she might hate him. She really does. It’s starting with a slow, burning ember in the pit of her belly, but it may very well grow into fully-fledged hate with enough fanning and fuel.

The stone steps are rough beneath her palms.

He is metal and flesh mashed together haphazardly. A broken Icarus with his wings torn, and he decided to make off with hers as well. It’s a cruel world where someone steals your wings. Even crueler when they leave your legs in tact.

All around her, the sun is rising. Light suffuses from the horizon. The gold of it washes all over her, the same gold as those dreadful eyes. It’s a glorious sight, or at least it’s meant to be. Dawn is for the hope of a new day—but where is the hope in this? Where is the hope now?

Her knees tremble beneath the weight of her body. Her eyes are raw from crying so much. But tears won’t do anything. Tears won’t bring him back. Cain isn’t coming back.

Cain is never coming back.

_I hate you._

When she swallows, it is like gulping down shards of glass. It cuts her throat on the way down and fills it with pain and blood. But her legs are still there, still working, these laborious contraptions of flesh and blood and muscle and tendons that hold man upright. That will shake and tremble and even buckle at times. That will bruise and ache, skinned knees and twisted ankles and split toenails. But they will still hold her up.

One step forward. And another. And another. One after the other after the other after the other. Climbing. Climbing. Higher and higher.

She’ll never fly again.

But she can walk.

Rosé resolves to hate Edward Hohenheim until the day that she dies.

And she walks forward.

* * *

Cornello is a rather pathetic being, all things considered. Lust almost wrinkles her nose at having to strike him through the head. His blood is ugly and repulsive and she dares not wipe it off on her dress, lest its horridness sink into the silken fabric of her garments.

With delicate fingers, she slides the ring off his finger. The place once-occupied by a gleaming scarlet gemstone is now empty—he likely used it up, all his grandstanding and miracles. She shouldn’t be surprised. Whatever it was that drove him to such needy, attention-seeking behavior, it devoured him whole in his old age. While her understanding of alchemy is limited, she does understand that Philosopher Stones are not as limitless as the lore surrounding them suggests they are. How painfully unfortunate.

“What was the point of wasting all that power?” she muses to herself. Pride? She supposes that she can understand that, although there’s something inherently unfortunate about a life put to waste over something so trivial. Humans are so silly, so naïve. All that power—spent on reanimating the bodies of birds and transmuting chimeras and flaunting his arrogance before the masses. Pathetic indeed. The Mistress could have not chosen a better receptacle for her will.

Red paints Gluttony’s face as he devours the corpse of the miserable creature. Lust tries, half-heartedly, to dissuade him, because such a wretched creature is underserving of being sustenance to higher beings such as themselves. But she knows that Gluttony’s simple mind does not bother which such thoughts of superiority or inferiority. In a sense, she admires that simplicity—maybe even envies it. How simpler the world must be when you don’t have to focus on all that, on looking down your nose at creatures not even worth crushing under your boot. My, how liberating it must be.

The ringing on the other end is slow and dulcet. Lust checks the blood drying on her nails. It’s taking forever for the operator to connect her. Briefly, she wonders if the code has been changed. But the code wouldn’t be changed while she was away, would it? Preposterous.

Finally, there is a click. A smooth voice, like the ripple of a still pond briefly disturbed by a rock, answers with a practiced, “Fuhrer’s office, speaking. How can I help you?”

“Cornello is dead,” Lust says casually into the receiver. Somewhere behind her, the sound of bones crunching and flesh tearing informs her that Gluttony is enjoying his meal. The contented noises he makes have an almost juiciness to them. “Ready to move on to phase three.”

“Excellent work,” purrs the voice on the other end. Not quite satisfied, per se, but as close to it as is possible. “That was almost sooner than expected.”

Lust adjusts the handset in the crook of her shoulder. Something about the word “almost” sets off a discordant note in her, but she smothers it, as she has been doing for a very long time. Praise, after all, does not come easily to this person. “The Fullmetal boy may have had a hand in it.”

“Where is he now?” asks the voice, with the barest hint of urgency.

The wet noises Gluttony makes while feeding are mildly revolting. Lust tries not to pay it much mind. “Returning to East City, I imagine. Why? Should we pursue him?”

“No, no. Remain where you are.” Lust can all but  _hear_  the malicious grin on the other end. It sends the barest shiver down her spine. “I have...  _other_  methods of keeping tabs on the brothers Hohenheim.”

* * *

The train from Liore is mostly empty, making the click-clack of wheels even more deafening without the normal murmur of conversation from other passengers to block it out. Brother peers out the window with a distant look in his eye, though Al suspects this is more to do with pointedly avoiding eye contact than admiring the sweep of the scenery. Given that Winry sits on the other end of the couch with her arms crossed and a glare aimed at anything in the general vicinity, that seems to be a fairly accurate assumption.

Liore has not left them, even if they are leaving Liore. Distance will do nothing to erase the vivid image of Rosé sprawled on the steps, wracked with ugly sobs and despair replacing whatever dignity she had, from their minds. Distance will do nothing to remove the fact that Brother left her on the cold stone floor with only a few words of parting.

“You didn’t have to leave her like that, Ed.” Winry’s voice holds all the warmth of steel.

Brother’s shoulders tense, but he does not look her way. He’s transmuted himself a fresh pair of sunglasses (with gaudy red rims) that successfully conceal his eyes. “I think she’s had enough of foreigners telling her what to do, don’t you think?”

“Still,” she hisses.

“What was I supposed to say?” The usual fire in Brother’s voice has given way to something tired and empty. Al eyes him in concern. “That everything’s gonna be okay?”

“Yes!”

“That’d be a lie, and you know it.” Al watches Brother’s jaw clench, the muscles twitching. His metal arm, now properly hidden thanks to alchemically repaired clothes and a new glove, falls to rest on his lap. “It always gets worse before it gets better.”

“Ed—”

“And like fuck I was gonna tell her how to feel,” Brother growls. “She needs to figure it out for herself, dammit. I’m not a charity.”

Al finds himself inexplicably torn. He can recognize the value in Brother’s reasoning, can recognize that sparing someone from pain can be so much worse than letting them fall. But at the same time, he sympathizes with Winry’s perspective, with the inherent wrongness that comes from leaving someone in a state of such utter despair without even a condolence in offering.

Well, no, that wasn’t entirely true. Both he and Winry had tried to comfort Rosé, but she had rejected them. There was nothing they could do.

“Maybe so,” Al says carefully, “but was blowing up the Church really necessary, Brother?”

A glare is sent Al’s way, but he knows that even if Brother doesn’t appreciate it, the subject has been changed and they aren’t discussing Rosé and shattered hope anymore. You don’t have to receive gratitude to help people.

“It was an _accident_ ,” Brother huffs, more agitated than before.

“Riiiight.” Winry elbows him lightly in the elbow with a mischievous smirk. The twinkle in her eye is a bit forced, but any laughter is better than none. “Like the courthouse in Faust.”

“Or the bank in Greensdale,” adds Al. The memory would make him smile, if he were capable of it. For a moment, there’s a genuine spark of mirth there.

Giggles spill from Winry at the particularly venomous look Ed sends Al. “ _Or_ the Turrington train station. _Boy_ were the townsfolk pissed.”

“...wow.” Al has to actually sit back and marvel at the number of destroyed buildings they left behind in their wake. The Fullmetal Alchemist may be called Hero of the People, but there was still quite a lot of property damage attached to the name. “You’re kind of a felon, Brother.”

“Accidents!” Ed erupts, bolting upright. His glasses slip a little down his nose. “How’s it _my_ fault that the architecture in this country is so goddamn flimsy?”

Another thought occurs to Al then—one that briefly makes him concerned for his older brother’s wellbeing. “Is that what you’re going to tell the colonel?”

To this, Brother falters, visibly wilting. “Er.”

Winry flashes a teasing smirk that, really, she _must_ have picked up from Ed, because Al has no prior memories of her being able to conjure such a devilish expression in their shared childhood. “Yes, Ed, what _are_ you going to tell the colonel?”

“I’ll... think of something!” He falls back against the seat and runs a gloved hand through his bangs with a miserable groan. “ _Shit_. I’m so _screwed_.”

“As long as you recognize it.” She gives Brother’s metal shoulder a patronizing pat, which he returns with a scowl.

“Don’t worry, Brother, we’ll give you a good funeral.”

“You suck, Al.”

“Would it be inappropriate to cremate the body?” Winry asks teasingly. Her shoulders have relaxed and there’s a glow of mirth in her eyes, tentative though it may be. Al considers this a victory on his part.

“The colonel will probably beat you to it,” he chuckles.

The glare Brother sends them both is in no way obstructed by his sunglasses. “Why do you _hate me_?”

They laugh with perhaps a little more force than necessary. And Brother’s mouth twitches into a phantom smile, an innocent flash of teeth that is just as much a grimace as it is a show of amusement. They keep talking, keep joking, keep smiling and laughing the way only old friends can, with inside jokes and teasing taken a touch too far and screaming without being actually angry. And they can almost pretend they are not leaving the smoking ruins of dead faith and false hope in their wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finally wrap up Liore! As always, feel free to ask questions. I will answer anything that isn't too spoiler-y!
> 
> That's it for this month's updates. More in October! 
> 
> Sincerely,  
> The Immortal Moon


	5. A Good Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At five-years-old, Al fully believes that Van Hohenheim is the best alchemist of their time and no one can convince him otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next handful of chapters will be taking place _before_ the main plotline, a la '03 anime. Dates will be labelled to avoid confusion.

_“This is the price you pay for having a great father. You get the wonder, the joy, the tender moments—and you get the tears at the end, too.”_  
—Harlan Coben

 

_~1904_

Al doesn’t remember his mother.

The only thing he recollects about her is her silhouette as light flooded in from the opened door. Then it slammed shut, and Dad hustled him and Brother back to bed. He’d been under the impression that she would be returning in the afternoon, or later that night, but days passed and she never did.

He knows he looks like her. Dad tells him so sometimes in an offhanded manner, and people whisper in the marketplace how tragic it is, how their mother ran off and left Dad all alone to raise two children by himself. How the youngest looks a bit like his mother, how the oldest is the spitting image of his father. The gossip is annoying, and Brother always makes a face like he wants to start yelling—but listening to it gives Al a better idea of who his mother was, so he is tolerant to some degree.

There are no photos of Trisha Elric, save for one. Dad keeps it in his room, tucked away inside the nightstand at his bedside. Brother found it while rooting around for something at Dad’s request, and Al was there to see. It’s not a good picture, because their mother has her face turned away and she’s leaning closer to Dad, so all they can really make out is her side profile and the curtain of hair that covers it. Still, the image reveals that she has the same golden coloration as them, marking her, too, as a descendant of once-proud Xerxes.

She is holding his baby-self in the image, Al noticed. He never stops wondering why she looked away from the camera, as though ashamed.

Brother shoved the photo back in the drawer and pretended he never saw it.

* * *

_~1904_

Al likes to think he can know his mother, in some abstract way, by the books she left in the study. Dad, who makes use of the space for his own research, often shoos them away when they are caught in their raiding attempts—but he never locks the door and makes it clear that they are free to disturb him, if they feel it dire enough. Sometimes they slip in just to admire the massive bookshelves that line the walls and the many colorful spines of thick scientific volumes, with subjects varying from alchemy to physics to biology. Often Dad is so absorbed in his research that he rarely notices until he catches their reflections in the suits of armor posted at the doorways, and lightly chides them for nosing around.

“Those are your mother’s books,” Dad will say whenever Brother asks about them. He will smile in a strange, wistful manner as he waves them out the door. When Al asks if they can read them, he’ll say, “I’m not the one you need to ask.”

But Brother is undaunted by their father’s continuous chastisements and disregards the presence left by their mother’s absence. When chores draw Dad away from the study and the intellectual collection is left unattended, the two of them sneak in and peruse to their heart’s content. Most kids will play outside on lazy summer weekends, but they instead entertain themselves by burying their noses deep in alchemy books.

“Boys!”

Al pauses where he lays on his stomach, book propped in his hands and an empty plate of snacks discarded next to him. Brother, too, has stilled, hand frozen around the half stick of chalk he was using to trace an amateur lattice on the floor, the white of it stark against the dark wood. A face-open book is at his side, the pages displaying various diagrams that correspond to the symbols for various elements, such as carbon and hydrogen. All around them, similar alchemy books are strewn out—some half-opened, others stacked, and more simply discarded. Entire sections of the nearest bookcase have gaping absences as testament to their intellectual looting.

Ever so slowly, Al raises his eyes over the lip of the pages to where their father stands in the doorway, the collar of his shirt sticking up on one side and blinking at them as though he can’t quite comprehend their existence.

“Um.” The sheepishness with which Brother sets the chalk aside and shrinks in on himself will be completely abandoned in later years. But right now, they are young children who look up to adults in awe and desperation for approval, and the mere idea of disappointing their father is like a cold hand around the heart. “W-We were just—”

“I hope you weren’t going to transmute with that,” Dad says. The sternness with which he speaks makes Al quiver. Oh dear, they’re in trouble now, aren’t they? Dad always scolds them for sneaking in and has told them countless times not to meddle with the books—but they have, and now they’re going to be sentenced to bed without desert for the next week. Or something equally heinous.

“I—”

Brother doesn’t get to finish whatever halfhearted explanation he was going to offer before Dad sighs and crosses the space. Al sits back up on his haunches while Dad kneels down slowly, taking the piece of chalk that Brother had set aside.

Then, to Al’s amazement, their father begins adding to the lattice with the neat, clean marks of a practiced hand. “It’s unbalanced. If you’d activated that, it could have resulted in a rebound.”

Al doesn’t really know what “rebound” is, nor does he care to ask. He’s too stunned by the chiding but gentle tone that Dad has taken, replacing the earlier sternness often associated with being in trouble. Does that mean they _aren’t_ in trouble?

“If you’re going to read these books, read them all the way to the _end_.” Flashing a warm smile, Dad hands the stick of chalk back to Brother, who blinks at it as though it is the most amazing thing in the world. “You have to be _careful_ when drawing circles.”

“You’re... not mad?” Al can scarcely believe it. Dad is _okay_ with them reading his alchemy books?

“ _Mad_?” Dad repeats with a light, incredulous laugh. He throws an arm around their shoulders and pulls them in close. Al’s thought as still whirling at the sudden turn of events. “I’m _thrilled_! To think you boys would be able to understand these books at your age...”

He trails off wistfully, but the grin he wears is so wide that it nearly splits his face in two.

“Whaddya mean?” Brother asks, blinking and just as bewildered as Al.

Dad laughs again, nice and warm. He’s always laughing, Dad. Always smiling. “Boys, I didn’t start reading these until I was _ten_.”

“Really?” Al can’t imagine that. Dad is the bestest alchemist in the whole wide world! He’s really, _really_ smart, and he fills up tens of pages with his alchemy notes almost daily. To think that Dad couldn’t understand these books until he was twice their age is _baffling._

“ _Really_.” It’s pride, Al realizes belatedly, that has Dad smiling so widely, that has his amber eyes dancing with a vibrant glow. “And if you wanted to learn alchemy, you could have just come to me. I would have been happy to teach you!”

Excitement flares across Brother’s face. “You’d really teach us alchemy, Dad?”

“Of course!”

* * *

_~1905_

At five-years-old, Al fully believes that Van Hohenheim is the best alchemist of their time and no one can convince him otherwise. The evidence is overwhelming, can be seen in every corner of Risembool. From the neighbors who commission him for repairs on just about anything to his task of revitalizing soil so that the next harvest will be as fruitful as the last to the little transmuted bobbles that the window Mr. Callow’s curio shop, available for purchase starting at six-hundred cenz. In later years, Al will reflect on the seeming mundaneness of this profession, how it is nothing truly spectacular—at least not in comparison to the amazing feats performed by State Alchemists. But for now, his father is an illustrious figure, radiating a sort of splendor that he and Brother greedily bask in.

It is natural, then, that they fully throw themselves into their alchemy studies at his encouragement. School work has always been too easy for them, so they are able to juggle both with an efficiently that would probably leave most scholars stupefied. Dad is patient but stern with them, reprimands when appropriate and does not go easy on them despite their age. As the months go on and the brothers grow used to learning alchemy, he also begins teaching them the language of their Xerxean ancestors.

“It’s part of your heritage,” Dad says whenever Brother complains about funny letters or Al asks why they need to translate simple phrases into a dead language. “It’d be a crime not to teach you!”

From an outside perspective, their father must have appeared a slave driver, and there were times when Al certainly thought of him as such. But he _loves_  learning, loves the fervent glow Dad got in his eyes whenever he started teaching a new subject, loves the proud grin he wore whenever they achieved some new feat. To inspire such pride is a drug, an addiction, and they are ever-eager to get their fix.

When the momentous day comes that they attempt their first transmutation, it takes them to the living room of the Rockbell house. Their next-door neighbors, the Rockbells have been close to their family since as long as Al could remember and even before he was born. Dad speaks often about his childhood and how it was spent in the neighbor’s welcoming embrace, from the tough but gentle manner which Granny doled out affection to the exploits that he and Uncle Urey entangled themselves in as children. Auntie Sarah, too, is always been kind to them, though she came from the city and lacks the same history with their family. That doesn’t make her any less warm, though, and sometimes Al thinks she might have replaced their mother, if he were to allow anyone to fill the void left by his one and only Mom. It only makes sense, then, that they are to share in such a crucial event.

He and Brother designed the array themselves over the course of several weeks. To draw it on the floor and see it brought to life is dizzying. Placing the materials in the center only serves to make it seem real. Winry leans forward from where she sits on Auntie’s lap, intrigued. Granny, seated next to her and Auntie on the couch, quietly chastises her for gawking. Dad is saying something to Uncle, who stands next to him off to the side as they observe the brothers work.

The plan is to transmute a doll, a simple thing with yarn hair and button eyes and a stitched mouth. Nothing fancy, at least not for a first transmutation. With the array drawn and the materials set, they position themselves on either side of the circle.

“Ready,” Brother says, crouched on his knees hands hovering over the outer rim.

“Ready,” Al repeats, mimicking his older brother.

Dad gives a nod, and they place their hands on the circle.

Transmutation is everything Dad said it would be—the crackling rush as the circle activates, the electrical thrill that fills the air, the addictive tingle in Al’s fingers. In the center, the raw material begins to dance and sizzle.

Winry lets out a shriek of surprise, but Auntie is quick with reassurances and placating murmurs. The doll slowly shapes, arms and legs and body and—

And then it’s over. The light fizzles out, leaving a perfectly-formed ragdoll splayed across the center. Al can’t stop grinning. They did it. They _actually_ did it!

Granny comes over and plucks their creation up. With an appraising hum, she hands it over to Winry, who accepts it with impossibly wide blue eyes. “Not bad for a first transmutation, boys. Not bad at all.”

For Granny, who is usually inclined to withhold compliments and reward efforts with little beyond a chuckle and a pat on the back, this is high praise indeed. The brothers share enthusiastic smiles.

“And here I thought _you_ were the child prodigy,” Uncle Urey says, flashing a mischievous grin Dad’s way.

“I know, right?” Dad kneels down to give their hair an affectionate ruffle, the weight of his hand heavy atop Al’s head. “[My little geniuses!]”

Al is grinning so hard that his face hurts.

“The buttons are crooked,” Winry notes. When Auntie says something soft and scolding, she looks affronted. “They are!”

“ _What_?” Brother breaks free from Dad’s embrace and scampers over to their friend. Slightly perturbed by the intensity in his gaze, Winry shows it to him. He groans. “They _are_ crooked!”

“Lemme see!” Al demands. How could that be? They spent weeks working out the formula and fine-tuning the array. It’s supposed to be perfect! But when Winry turns the doll’s face towards him, he finds, to his dismay, that the buttons used for the eyes are not flawlessly straight as they had designed. “...oh.”

“Just because it didn’t turn out absolutely perfect doesn’t make it any less remarkable,” Auntie says reassuringly.

“Right,” Dad adds. “You should have seen _my_ first transmutation. It was a _disaster_.”

Again, Al cannot believe that. His dad is brilliant and intelligent and the idea of him doing anything wrong is absolutely inconceivable.

“I can attest to that,” Uncle laughs, to which Dad stands and shoots him a dirty look. “Compared to that, you two are absolutely brilliant.” Dad is outright _glaring_ now, but Uncle only smiles blithely. “Though, given who your parents are, it doesn’t surprise me.”

_...pa **rents**? As in... plural?_

“Why thank you,” Dad says, before Al can inquire.

“I wasn’t talking about you.” Dad sends Uncle an affronted look, but Uncle just grins broadly, so much so that the corners of his eyes crinkle and his cheeks crease with dimples. “Oh, don’t look at me like that! We both know that sort of smarts couldn’t possibly come from _your_ side of the gene pool.”

Dad’s left brow twitches. Brother sends Al a grin brimming with impish delight.

Oh boy.

As though making a show of it, a frighteningly sharp smile slowly spreads across Dad’s face, like a wildcat baring its fangs. “Are you calling me _dumb_ , Urey?”

Flashing a smile that can only be described as teasing, Uncle crosses his arms. “Now why on _earth_ would I do that?”

“You _know_ why, you assh—”

“Language!” Auntie interrupts sharply.

“For pity’s sake,” Granny huffs. “You remember that there are _impressionable children_ in the room, right?”

Uncle and Dad both glance at each other, then at him and Brother and Winry. A grudging sort of look passes across Dad’s face as he turns away, muttering about morons and shoving things in unpleasant places and enacting violent revenge on Uncle the next time he calls Dad stupid. In response, Uncle gives a gloating little smile that provokes another glare from Dad. Auntie sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose and murmurs something about men acting like children, to which Granny nods stiffly.

“Just when it was getting good,” Brother grumbles.

But Al isn’t really thinking about that. He’s too busy trying to decipher what Uncle meant when he said “parents”, plural.

* * *

In hindsight, Al supposes it makes sense that Mom is an alchemist too. After all, she’s owner to half the books in the study, many of which are rare and touch upon arcane subjects, or are written in an entirely different language. Some are her own research. A couple times while browsing, either him or Brother have stumbled across what are actually notebooks written in a delicate, flowing hand rather than the crispness of a printing press.

Whenever Brother comes across one of Mom’s books, he slams it shut with unnecessary aggression and a moody huff before shoving it back on the shelf. Al is the only one who turns the pages, and he’s always caught.

“Those are special,” Dad chastises as he gently pries his hands from the pages. When he places the books back, there is something almost raw and aching about him. “Just leave them alone, okay?”

“Okay.” Al doesn’t really understand, but he tries to remember where the books are placed so he won’t accidentally stumble across them again.

Granny is the one who ultimately confirms his suspicion. He can’t remember if he asks her directly, or if she just intuits it in that way old ladies somehow can. But one day, when the subject of Mom comes up, she says, “Oh, that Trisha was a brilliant alchemist. That’s how she and your father fell in love, you know. They were colleagues.”

The revelation is only half of one, because he had already suspected as much—but having it confirmed causes things to shift, somehow. Now when Al looks at a lattice, he finds himself wondering if his mother ever used something similar to transmute. When he reads books, he wonders if she ever read the same text, and what her thoughts on the materials were. He wonders if she liked to scribble glyphs on the edges of her school papers or in her notebooks like he does.

Alchemy itself does not change. But everything about it does.

It changes for Brother, too, but in a different way. He grows obsessive with it, trying to reconfigure basic principles or construct his own arrays, things Dad advised they hold off on for a little while. But Brother doesn’t pay heed. And whenever someone brings up Mom, his face twists into an angry scowl and he is quick to change the subject, even as his irritability seems to swell.

“You don’t have to be better than her,” Al says one day, when they are alone in the field outside the house and finished with their studies. Only, Brother has smuggled a book from the study on advanced alchemy and is reading it with that fervent obsessiveness, as though the idea of not reading at any given time is anathema.

At the sound of Al’s voice, Brother looks up sharply, a furrow in his brow. “What are you talking about?”

“Mom.” Al may be young but he’s also smart. Dad calls it intuitive. Al thinks he just knows Ed well enough. “You don’t have to be better than her, just ‘cause she’s an alchemist too.”

Brother answers with a scowl and snort and slamming the book closed so hard that Al winces. “Don’t call her that.”

“Call her what?”

“‘Mom’.” Brother spits the word. He scoops the book up and stands, glaring at the ground as though it has grievously offended him. “She _abandoned_ us, Al! She left us and she left Dad ‘cause she doesn’t love us.”

“That’s not true!” Al is stricken. How on earth could Brother say those things? _Think_ those things? Sure, Mom had not been present for some time (eighteen months and counting), but Dad obviously loves her, and their father wouldn’t love someone if they were as cruel as Brother is making their mother out to be. He is too smart, and far too kind.

“Then where is she?” Brother sneers.

To that, Al has no answer.

“Don’t talk about her again, Al.” And Al would protest if not for the undertone in Brother’s voice. Beneath the anger and the bitterness and the vitriol, a coil of hurt is pulled tight. “And don’t mention her to Dad, either! It makes him sad.”

That is _preposterous_ , surely. But Brother does not give him the opportunity to argue, or even to start a fight for superiority the way they usually do when they argue about little things. Instead, he storms off in a huff, leaving Al alone in the field and staring, gaping, at his back as he retreats into the house.

* * *

Brother may be older, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be wrong. And he’s wrong about Dad—Al is certain of that.

The man Al knows their father to be is a proud, stubborn, kind-hearted person with an unfortunately short attention span. One which means that things get forgotten or misplaced and he loses track of them sometimes. It’s forced them to be more conscious of the world around them, so it is a forgivable flaw. Even more so because, despite it, Dad loves them more than anything.

He calls them his pride and joy, which means being with them makes him happy, which therefor means he is not sad. After all, that laughter cannot come from nowhere, nor can those smiles. Their happiness is his happiness, so he’s told them many times. Especially when they’d started “catlantis” against his better judgement, just so he could see their faces light up.

Al still remembers that night, rain pelting against the windowpanes and peels of thunder in the distance. Brother had found a trembling little thing with drenched grey fur and plaintive mewls in its throat taking shelter on the porch. They had both been quick to usher it to the safety of indoors, though Dad had been less than receptive to the idea of taking in strays, and insisted they take it back.

“ _Please_ , Dad?” Al remembers Brother begging. Swaddled in a faded old dishrag, the kitten let out another whimpering mew, a single white paw poked out tentatively.

All parents must inherently maintain a stern façade when trying to put their foot down, and Dad was no exception. The only problem was that he was phenomenally _bad_ at it. Al could see the hesitation in his eyes, the way he pointedly avoided their gazes as though he knew that looking at the pleading there was a death sentence. “C’mon, guys. You know we can’t keep it.”

“Why not?” Al snatched the little thing from his Brother’s arm, which resulted in an indignant cry. But he ignored it in favor of a mewling little bundle shaking like a leaf and looking as though it hadn’t had a decent meal in a week. “Dad! _Look_ at it! It’s shivering and it’s so _thin_ and—”

“Al,” Dad sighed.

“It’s got nowhere to go!” Brother added.

Dad sent him a look of utter betrayal. “Oh, not you too—”

“We can’t just leave it out in the cold!” Al cried. The little thing shifted in his arms as lightning cracked in the distance. Big blue eyes peered out from the folds of the dishrag, as though trying to plead its own case.

He cradled it close as though a newborn, and it mewled at him with big blue eyes. Grey fur was plastered to its skinny frame by the rain. White paws batted at his chest. How could _anyone_ possibly say that cats weren’t adorable?

“Pleeease Dad?” Taking a page from the kitten’s book, Brother screwed his face up into a pout and widened his eyes so they looked extra sad. It was successful in making Dad wince.

“Oh _c’mon_.” A note of pleading had entered Dad’s tone, which was a fatal mistake. Parents should never plead with their children. They will always lose. “Don’t look at me like that!”

And because children know what it is like to be denied something they desperately want, they did not let up. Instead, Al joined in, because it was weakness and this kitten was literally the _most_ adorable thing he’d ever seen.

“Boys...” Dad was losing ground and he knew it.

So did they. They did not let up.

“ _Pwease_?” Al begged.

It should be noted that Dad’s effort was a valiant one, and he continued to fight them for another two minutes before recognizing that they had inherited his stubbornness. Shoulders slumped, a sigh was heaved that rang with defeat, and he ran a hand roughly over his face.

“ _Fine_ ,” he said. “But it goes back in the morning!”

Unfortunately, he’d given them an inch and they intended to take a mile. Not only did the newly-christened Socks not go back in the morning, but he remained a permanent member of the household. Even worse, four more cats ended up joining them before Dad finally grew inured to their puppy eyes.

“You’re so _weak_!” Al caught Uncle laughing the day after Dad had turned down the sixth cat. Brother, furious with his failure and furious at Dad for denying them, had sequestered himself in his room with the declaration of a hunger strike (which ended up lasting all of five minutes). Because of this, he was not there to greet Winry as she was brought over for a play date and endure her ogling their collection of kitties.

“Urey,” Dad said with the utmost seriousness. “You don’t understand. My sons are _adorable_.”

“Weak,” Uncle repeated.

“They gave me the sad eyes! What was I _supposed_ to do?!”

“Weak~,” Uncle singsonged. “I’m telling you, Van, it doesn’t matter _how_ cute your kids are. Sometimes you have to say ‘no’.”

Of course, Winry chose _that_ moment to present her father with a puppy she found sniffing around out back and made Uncle splutter when she asked if they could keep him, and Dad laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his seat.

And surely that sort of laughter doesn’t come from someone who is sad in the way Brother claims Dad to be. It just doesn’t happen. Sadness implies weeping, implies sobs and tears and wailing. At least, that is Al’s understanding of sadness, when he is young and doesn’t yet know that sadness is a persistent ache in your heart. And for all his stubbornness (except in cases involving their puppy-eyes), absent-mindedness, occasional flare-ups of temper that rear their ugly head when anyone dare imply his intelligence lacking—for all of this, Al never knew his father to _cry_. Dad can grow sombre or quiet, as all people can, but that in itself is intrinsically different than sadness, surely.

Six-years-old and still idolizing the man who dedicates his life to them, Al looks at Dad’s wide, dazzling smiles and boisterous laughter and tendency to tousle their hair, and he thinks that no person can smile so much when they’re sad.

* * *

_~1906_

It is with great astonishment that Al finds himself up late one night and spies Dad sitting out on the porch. He can’t quite remember what possessed him to rise out of bed in the middle of the night. Maybe he had to go to the bathroom, or he wanted a drink of water, or a late-night snack. Still, it guided his feet downstairs, where he caught the moonlight glowing in his father’s golden hair.

With stealth brought about by curiosity, Al crept over to the front door. He could better see his father’s silhouette, hair down and a blanket draped over his shoulders. Winters in Risembool are not snowy, like in the North, but they are cold and dry and often accompanied by heavy frost. The curl of steam wafts out from Dad’s lap as he sits on the front step. As Al watches, he raises a mug and his head tilts back as he takes a sip.

Perhaps Al is placing a touch too much pressure on the handle, because the door soon betrays him as it opens with a squeak. Dad’s head snaps around as he stumbles onto the porch.

Dad is quick to recover. He sighs and sets his steaming mug of who-knows down in his lap. “Hey kiddo. What’re you doing up?”

“I was just...” Al fumbles for an excuse, but he can no longer remember his reasons. “What’re you drinking?”

“Hot chocolate.” Dad raises it to his mouth for another sip. Loose hair drips off his shoulders. “Do you want me to make you some?”

“No thanks.”

“Mm,” he hums absently, the same way he does when he’s engaged in a particularly fascinating paper. His gaze drifts out into the distance, into the icily clear night sky. After a moment, he adds, “You should go back to bed.”

Yes. Al probably should. But instead, he walks over and settles down next to his father. As if anticipating this, Dad doesn’t hesitate to wrap the blanket around him.

Al peers up at the sky. Without clouds to obstruct it, the universe is free to unfold in a glittering silver display. There are astronomy books in the study that describe comets and shooting stars and distant planets, but all the information leaks out of his memory. This is a beauty that steals your breath away, cold and unreachable and all the more gorgeous for it.

“Are you sure you don’t want hot chocolate?” Dad asks. The lack of crickets or fireflies makes the night seem oddly still. “It’ll help you sleep.”

He gives the mug a cautious sniff. Chocolate has been rationed since the conflict in Ishval began to worsen, so he hasn’t had much contact with it (although, he later learns that Dad keeps a secret stash). It smells sweet and rich. “Is it really chocolate?”

“Chocolate powder, technically. And hot water, usually. I prefer it with milk, though.”

“I bet Brother wouldn’t,” Al jokes.

An exasperated sigh falls from Dad’s mouth. The issue of Brother refusing to drink milk is one that has been bickered over for as long as Al can remember. Granny says the real reason Dad and Brother argue is because they’re so similar, equally stubborn and temperamental (though Dad is much mellower in comparison, and sometimes just stares at the ceiling in silent exasperation rather than shouts). This particular bone of contention is one that neither will concede on, to the point where Al began drinking Brother’s milk for him just so they’d _stop_.

“Suppose he wouldn’t,” Dad agrees, and takes another sip. He pauses a moment, then offers the mug to Al.

Tentatively, Al accepts it, heat suffusing through the white ceramic and warming his palms. It’s large in his child hands, unwieldy, and he has to take pains so as not to spill it. Minding the “careful, it’s hot” from Dad, he takes a cautious sip. There is an overlying creaminess that is probably the milk, though the usual taste of dairy is drowned by a pleasantly rich sweetness. The warmth of it slides right down to Al’s belly. “It’s good!”

Dad gives a chuckle as Al hands it back. “Thought you might like it. When the rations stop being so crazy, we’ll have plenty of powder, and we can have it all the time.”

Well. That sounds awesome.

But strangely enough, Dad’s smile does not last. He turns back to the sky again, and Al watches the miraculous process of that smile thinning and fading into a mere wry curve of the lip. A distant look overtakes his eyes—not the same look he gets when he’s reading or so focused on something that the world evaporates. This is a tired look that makes the gold of his eyes dull and somber, that has his attention focused somewhere far, far away. Farther than Al can see.

Winter cold nips at Al’s face and exposed arms. “...Dad?”

The sound of Al’s voice manages to rouse him. He gives a little shake of his head.  “Sorry. I— ...your mother and I used to sit out here.”

“Really?” Whenever Dad talks about Mom, it is offhanded comments that reveal almost nothing, only remind them of the absence this mysterious woman left. It’s never anything this substantial.

That small smile grows a little, but it’s tight and there’s no flash of teeth. “Yeah. We’d just... sit here drinking hot chocolate and look at the stars. Like there—see that row of three bright stars there?”

Leaning forward a little, Al follows Dad’s pointer finger to the three bright points of light that glitters just beneath the Milky Way. They stand out strikingly against the glittering expanse, like someone lined up a trio of diamonds just to sparkle down at mankind.

“That’s Orion,” Dad explains, dropping his hand. The moonlight bleaches his hair, turns it from gold to ghostly silver. “The hunter. According to Xerxean legend, he was a mighty warrior who fell in love with a goddess. But... it ended poorly for him. He was placed in the stars by his beloved after—after he died.”

Something about the way Dad says that makes Al’s chest hurt a little. He turns to his father, who looks cold and lonely with the moonlight washing him out. “Hey Dad?”

“Mm?”

“Are you sad?”

Rather than answer right away, Dad tilts his head to the side in a contemplative fashion. “...sometimes. Everyone gets sad, Al. Like when I miss your mom, it makes me sad. But you boys—you both make me happy.”

Darn. That means Brother’s right. But it does beg the question as to why Al never noticed how sad Dad was. When you’re sad, you usually cry, but Dad isn’t crying. “You really miss her?”

“Yeah,” Dad says softly.

Al brings his knees up to his chest and contemplates it for a moment—the absence, the hollow ache where a second parent’s love should be. The golden silhouette in the doorway, his only memory of a mother long gone. “...I miss her, too, sometimes.”

With a bittersweet smile, Dad pulls him in a little closer. The weight of the wool blanket is heavy on his shoulders, and Dad is warm as Al snuggles up closer. Steam has ceased to rise from the mug of hot chocolate. Overhead, the night sky glitters like shaved diamonds.

“I bet she misses us, too,” Dad murmurs.

Because he is still young, Al doesn’t fully understand the meaning of “sacrifice”, but he has a better understanding of sadness from then on.

* * *

_~1907_

For a while, everything is perfect. They’re together, they’re whole. They study alchemy under their father’s firm hand and learn the ancient tongue of their ancestors and tend to the five cats that take residence in their home. Winry is next door, Granny makes stew when Dad burns their dinner, they laugh together about how easy school is. For years, everything is perfect.

Perfection does not last.

Dad has a love of travel that predates their existence. He has many acquaintances scattered across the East State, all of them alchemists he met in his travels. After Ed and Al were born, Dad traveled less, but he still likes to visit bookstores in nearby towns. As they grow older, he becomes more inclined to bring them along and encourages them to conduct their own research with the books they read in the libraries. This particular excursion is taking them deep into the South State.

“Promise you’ll write,” Winry pleads as they bid her farewell.

Brother huffs and feigns disinterest, despite the obvious flush on his cheeks. “Whatever,” he mutters, eight-years-old and having suddenly decided that all forms of affection are stupid.

“We will,” Al promises. With Auntie and Uncle off at the warfront, as they have been for the last two years, it’s only her and Granny in that great big house of theirs. Sure, they have Den, and they will be looking after the cats, but still, there is too much empty space for just two people. “Take care!”

“Have a safe journey,” Granny calls after them. “And Van—use bug repellent! The South is riddled with mosquitoes!”

Dad laughs and waves.

However, their trip ends up artificially lengthened—the Ishval War leaks out from the nation’s desert borders and into their hometown, coalescing into a bombing that reduces Risembool Station into smoke and rubble, forcing them to remain within Dublith for several months. The news leaves them agitated, desperate to return home and frustrated by their inability to do so. More news passes through the wireless, about an extermination and State Alchemists and things that makes Dad twist it off, scolding them quietly that these are things not meant for children to listen too. That alone is enough to make Al nervous.

(They also meet a nice couple that allows them to stay in their home, because hotels are pricey and they only have so much money, and this couple is kind and able to briefly distract them from Risembool’s plight.

Well. That’s a story for another time.)

* * *

_~1908_

When they do return, though, they find the Rockbells have returned, their time at the war cut unceremoniously short. For some reason, they have to use different names and must be very careful about who they give their identities to, but Winry is grinning wider than she has in years and Dad hugs Uncle tight. Al considers that a victory.

Not three days after settling back into Risembool, he and Brother return from the market with groceries in their arms. At seven and nine respectively (Al’s birthday is only two months away), most would think them too young to venture into the market without parental supervision, but living under a well-meaning yet scatterbrained parent has inspired in them a sense of autonomy that was necessary for their survival. And besides, the proprietors are much too neighborly to dare take advantage of two young boys and their single, universally-liked father.

“Dad! We’re home!” Al calls. Knowing their father, he’s probably absorbed in a book or something, which is probably why Brother found the cupboards empty in the first place.

Brother dumps the brown bags unceremoniously onto the counter. Socks takes the opportunity to leap onto the counter in search of affection, but Brother cruelly ignores him. “And we brought groceries. ‘Cause you forgot— _again_.”

“Brother,” Al groans. Brother only rolls his eyes. For some reason, Ed has developed a rather impressive streak of impertinence and a disregard for authority that most parents would not tolerate. Al considers themselves lucky that their father is not most parents.

“Dad?” Brother peers up at the stairs. Ruby is splayed out on the bottom step, all long tortoiseshell fur and wispy fluff that gives her the regality of a princess. But again, Brother ignores her. Al cannot understand how Ed can be so inured to their cuteness. It’s inhuman.

Dad doesn’t respond. He probably didn’t hear them. Maybe he’s taking a look at the books they picked up from Dublith.

Al sets his own burden down beside Socks. The grey tabby meows pleadingly and promptly rolls onto his back. Adorableness like this demands to be rewarded with a belly-rub. “You missed us, huh, boy?”

Socks purrs his confirmation.

“Brother? Are you gonna help me unpack?”

Brother has hopped over Ruby, who makes absolutely no effort to remove herself from the step. “In a sec,” is the answer, which is actually just a “no” in disguise.

Heaving a sigh, Al gets started on debagging the produce.

“Dad!” Brother calls again. The noise has Suzie (who is actually a male, don’t ask) stalking over from the back room to investigate, long skinny tail swaying. “Hey! We’re hoooome!”

“He’s probably just doing research, Brother.” Socks is being incredibly adorable, but incredibly unhelpful. With a sigh, Al scoops the kitty up in his arms and sets him down on the floor.

“Or sleeping,” Brother mutters distastefully. Okay, yeah, Dad slept in—but it was a stressful couple of days, between the journey back and Auntie and Uncle seemingly coming back from the dead. Brother turns around—

Just as a _thump_ sounds from upstairs.

They both pause.

Marmalade comes sprinting down the stairs in a blur of ginger-and-white. This, naturally, spooks Ruby, who immediately bolts off in some random direction, which startles Suzie. Suzie then proceeds to hiss at everything, wrapping his long dark brown tail around his cream body and hunkering down, ears flat.

“Okaaay. I’m going up there.” Brother is marching up the stairs before Al can so much as protest. “Dad! Why’re you scaring the cats, dammit?”

Fortunately, Al is kept from worrying too much because he hears hissing and growling from the back room. He sighs loudly. That better not be Ruby and Felicia going at it again—

The shouting from upstairs gives him pause.

Moments later, Brother bolts down the stairs. Suzie leaps to his feet and skids in his attempt to get away. Al only catches a hasty shout of something that sounds like “I’m going to the Rockbells’, stay here” before the door bangs open and Brother is gone.

“Wait! Brother! Don’t leave the door—”

Too late. The black blur that streaks out the door indicates that Felicia has already gotten loose.

“...great.” There should be a limit for how many people should sigh in one day. Al closes the door before anyone else can get loose.

_What was that about, anyway?_

His unspoken question is answered a moment later when Dad comes stumbling down the stairs. And yes, “stumbling” is the best word to describe the action.

“Edward!” Dad calls, but there’s little force behind it. He nearly misses a step and catches the railing before he can tumble down the stairs. “Edward, I’m _fine_ —"

He is most distinctly _not_ fine. The skin around his eyes is a deep shade of purple you only see on bruises, which only stands out more strikingly against the waxy paleness of his complexion. His ponytail is only half done, with stray hair clinging his sweaty forehead. He’s not even fully dressed, vest unbuttoned and the collar of his shirt distinctly crooked. Forget _fine_ , he looks _horrible_.

“Dad!” Al is quick to make his way over. “Oh my God!”

“...Alphonse?” Dad blinks blearily and peers out at the front hall as though he doesn’t recognize it. His eyes shine with feverish light. “When did you...?”

“Are you _okay_?” Stupid question! He’s clearly _not_.

“M’fine,” Dad retorts. With slowness similar to a man suffering from arthritis, he eases himself into a sitting position, face twisted into a grimace. “Back’s killin’ me...”

Al eyes his worriedly. He’s never seen his father ill, much less sneeze, but the man is only human and it seems he’s now suffering for those years of glowing health. The short beard he’s grown out in the last year serves to collect the rivulets of sweat dribbling down his face, and the spectacles Granny insisted he wear because of deteriorating eyesight are conspicuously absent. Al recalls the urgency with which Brother bolted out the door and bites his lip.

As he watches, Dad begins massaging the bridge of his nose. Al knows him well enough to guess what that means. “Do you have a headache?”

“S’nothing.” Translation: _My head hurts, but not as bad as my back_. Because if Dad actually bothered to complain about his back, then it’s _bad_. “I’m fine. Tell your brother I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Al says, a little at a loss. He’s not really sure what to _do_. Dad’s never been sick before, and never this bad. What do you do when your parent is obviously ill but refuses to acknowledge themselves as such?

Thankfully, Brother arrives at that moment with Auntie Sarah at his heels. Auntie takes one look at Dad and immediately rushes to his side.

“Good _God_ , Van!” she exclaims, looking him over with her eyes round. “You look _horrible_.”

“M’fine,” Dad repeats, but it sounds even less convincing the second time. The slurring doesn’t help. “Ed’s... s’overreactin’.”

“You _collapsed_ in the _study_!” Brother all but screeches. His voice is thick with the beginnings of hysteria, and his eyes are even wilder.

“Overreactin’,” Dad asserts firmly as Auntie touches a hand to his forehead.

“Van, you’re burning up!” she exclaims and fixes him with a scolding glare. “You need bedrest.”

“I’m—”

“Say ‘I’m fine’ again and I’ll have Pinako personally drag you into bed by the ear.”

Whether this threat is genuine or not, it leaves Dad sufficiently cowed, although definitely resentful if the glare he gives her is any indication. “...fine.”

“Good.” Auntie hooks an arm under Dad’s, lifting him slowly to his feet. He leans heavily on her and gives a miserable-sounding groan, a hand quick to cover his mouth. She grimaces sympathetically. “Easy now. Nice and slow.”

Al doesn’t particularly want to watch Auntie have to help Dad up the stairs, so he instead turns his attention to the door. He closes it just before Suzie can get out—that would have been a disaster.

* * *

Winry arrives with Felicia in tow, explaining that she found the kitty valiantly defending herself against Den’s unassuming curiosity. Den now has three fresh scratches on her nose, poor thing. Al carefully extracts Felicia from Winry’s arms and cradles her, reminding Winry that cats must have their feet held so they don’t feel like they’re falling.

“How can you even _like_ cats?” she huffs, eyeing Marmalade, who is curled up next to him on the couch, distrustfully. She has, as Granny puts it, become a dog person, all thanks to Den’s influence. “They have big beady eyes and they just _stare_ at you—and they don’t lick your face like dogs do!”

“Felicia licks my face.”

“But her tongue is all _rough_.”

“Cats purr,” Al says, which trumps anything she could possibly think of.

She looks inclined to disagree, but instead she just sighs. “Whatever. Where’s _Ed_? He suddenly burst into the house, grabbed Mom, and left without saying hi!”

Well, in fairness, Brother also ran out of their house without much explanation, so that doesn’t surprise Al too much. What does surprise Al is that, when he looks around, Ed is conspicuously absent. When did he vanish?

“Uh.” Setting Felicia down, Al turns back to Winry. “Brother was worried. Dad’s sick, see.”

“What? Since when?” To Winry, Dad is Uncle Van, a beloved member of her almost-family who brings home automail tools from long journeys and played the part of surrogate parent while Auntie and Uncle were away. The worry on her face is genuine and deep, likely enhanced as she connects the reasons behind Brother’s earlier behavior with the circumstances. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine.” As they turn to the stairs in surprise, none other than Ed himself makes his way down the stairs, but the earlier franticness has been replaced by a bewildering nonchalance. It also begs the question of when he managed to slip upstairs without Al noticing. “He just needs to stay in bed for a few days and take his medicine.”

Before Al can question Brother’s sudden insight into Dad’s condition, Auntie’s footsteps bring his attention back to the stairs. Brother is quick to jump onto the couch, which ultimately disturbs Marmalade. The feline gets to her feet, stretches, and shoots Ed a very deliberate look of annoyance before leaping down onto the floor and padding off into the kitchen.

At the sight of Winry, Auntie pauses. “Honey? What’re you doing here?”

“I found one of the cats,” Winry says dismissively. “Is Uncle Van okay? Al says he’s sick!”

Auntie glances at Brother and him, though Al can’t quite tell if the expression is amused or exasperated. Somewhere in between, perhaps. “Van is fine. Though I can’t make a diagnosis this early, I suspect yellow fever, just based on the symptoms and on the fact that you all recently took an excursion to the Southern State. I’m not _entirely_ certain, so I recommend a course of antivirals just in case—but if I’m right, all he needs lots of bedrest. He should be good as new after a few days or so.”

“Thanks Auntie,” Brother chirps brightly. Ah, _now_ Al understands. Brother was _eavesdropping_! How shameful!

“It’s not contagious, so you don’t need to worry about that. But he _does_ need painkillers to alleviate the muscle pain.” She casts a worried look up the stairs, which itself says a lot—Dad’s going to miserable the next few days. “Come by each day to pick up the medicine. And make sure he gets _plenty_ of fluids.”

“Will do,” Brother says. He sounds genuinely relieved, which Al thinks is a good thing. It’s nice to know that Brother only feigns hostility. “And if he tries to get outta bed, I’ll punch him.”

She gives an awkward smile. “Er, I wouldn’t, but—you’ve got the right idea.”

“Thank you, Auntie,” Al says, and shoots Brother a pointed look. Brother repeats the sentiment, though in a much more plastic fashion.

“You’re very welcome. Just keep an eye on him, okay boys?”

“We will,” Brother promises.

* * *

True to his word, Brother keeps a close eye on Dad—but in the process, he becomes sharper and bossier, subtler at first, but more and more noticeable as the days pass. Gone are the mischievous gleams in his eye and the impish smirks, turning into a tendency towards grouchy, sarcastic mutterings. He skips school to stay with Dad all day (Al offers to do the same, but Brother shakes his head and pointedly reminds Al that he’s the oldest, it’s his responsibility, Al shouldn’t worry and should go to school and be a normal kid), makes regular trips to the Rockbell house in order to pick up medicine, and even takes up cooking dinners.

Al would marvel at the shift if it weren’t so disturbing. He knew Brother had learned how to pack lunches over the years, but had never thought him capable of cooking meals (they’re actually pretty bland and flavorless, but Brother slaves over the stove and Al’s not one to complain). Arguing could be heard from upstairs, though Brother always dismissed it as nothing whenever Al inquired. When Al visits Dad, his father complains, between vomiting and moans of pain, that Ed is a nursemaid of the worse kind.

“He’s so _bossy_ ,” Dad laments, though the weak smile he wore suggested an attempt at humor. His eyes are red and puffy, hands shaking with chills. “I bet he gets that from Trisha—she could be bossy if she wanted, if she was worried enough.”

“He needs to take his medicine,” Brother snaps whenever Al suggests letting up. “If he had it his way, he’d be back in the study and vomiting all over the floor!”

After school, Brother shoos him out of the house, so Al is left to talk only to Winry. They talk about alchemy and automail, because both are worried but neither wants to think about that, so they instead babble about the one thing each knows will distract without fail. While he doesn’t particularly have any interest in automail, he’s pleasantly surprised to find that Winry is vaguely interested in alchemy. He spends their afternoons talking to her about Equivalent Exchange and trying not to think about Dad’s condition.

Thankfully, Dad’s fever breaks after a few days, and his other symptoms abate soon after. He sits up fully—a feat he had not been able to achieve while feverish and plagued by nausea—and laughs good-naturedly about the whole incident. He has lost weight from his refusal to eat, but he looks much better than he has in days. And Al (naïve, so naïve) believes it for the miracle it is, easily convinced that the worst is behind them.

Brother is more skeptical and continues to confine Dad to his bed. “Uncle says to keep an eye on you for a little longer,” he announces.

Dad huffs, but fatigue still clings to his limbs and he allows Brother to push him back against the mattress.

Early the next morning, Al comes into Dad’s room with a tray of breakfast in his arms. The curtains are still drawn, shrouding the whole room in a dusky blanket of shadows. For some reason, the room feels strangely ominous, like invading the resting space of the dead. Even more ominous is Dad’s conspicuous absence—in the place where he should by lying, the sheets are carelessly twisted, as though the occupant had suffered a fitful night’s sleep. There is a dark, viscous substance that pools next to the bed. Socks is there, sniffing it, but looking uninclined to lap at it.

It smells like something crawled into a gutter and died covered in sewage. Al wrinkles his nose. “...Dad?”

A painfully wretched noise draws his attention over to the bathroom in the corner. The door is half-opened, casting a stripe of light across the room that cuts like a knife through the dimness. A thick, metallic stench wafts out from it. Biting his lip, Al sets the tray at the end of the bed, carefully avoiding the black chunky pool.

The hinges creak as Al tentatively pushes the door open. He finds Dad doubled over the toilet, on his knees and shoulders wracked with tremors. All around him, the tiles are dark with what, in the light, Al can now see is a fluid so deep scarlet in hue that it merely borders black. Dad’s hands clutch at the toilet bowl so tightly that his knuckles are nearly as white as the porcelain. A violent retch seizes his skeleton, and vomit spills into the toilet.

Horror flushes through Al’s veins and turns his blood cold. “Dad!”

Groaning softly, Dad peers up at him. Loose golden hair spills down his shoulders and clings to his sweaty forehead and cheeks. The light in his eyes is a dull, persistent ache of misery and pain bleeding into one another, to the point where you can hardly tell the difference. Scarlet dribbles from his mouth, clings to the edges of his beard.

“Al,” Dad croaks, but he gets no farther before his throat convulses, and he turns back to the toilet to vomit more blood.

Al doesn’t think. Panic grips him, and his first thought is that Brother is older and has spent the last few days taking care of Dad—so he _must_ know what to do.

He runs into the hallway and screams at the top of his lungs until Brother comes running. Ordering Al to stay put, Ed darts into the bathroom to assess the damage for himself in a way that Al’s tripping and stuttering words can not illustrate.

Exactly three heartbeats pass. Brother pokes his head out from the bathroom, face deathly grim. His eyes glitter like pyrite.

“Al,” he says, sounding much older than he should. “Get Uncle Urey.”

And Al is too scared to protest. He only nods and runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in case you can't tell yet, I messed with the timeline a little.
> 
> Arawaka's timeline is a little more ambiguous and I think that's purposeful, because the story works just fine without setting up strict numerical values on events. Plus it does tend to limit you, if you think entirely in that manner. But—I am such a linear thinker that I _need_ to attach numerical values and iron out certain details, just so it can make more sense to me and I don't accidentally conflict in places. So you'll see a stricter timeline in this fic, which is also going to be slightly different from canon in specific places.
> 
> The manga and BH canon place Trisha’s death in the same year Hohenheim leaves, when Ed and Al are five and four respectively (so 1904). However, ’03 canon places her death after the Rockbells’, when Ed and Al are ten and nine respectively (so 1909, around the time Ishval ends). In this AU, I'm placing it closer to ’03 canon.
> 
> Sincerely yours,  
> The Immortal Moon


	6. Yellow Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then his grip on Al’s hand grows slack. Then he’s silent, and far too still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update because it's October 3rd. Happy FMA Day!

_“The ballad of a dove  
Go with peace and love  
Gather up your tears, keep 'em in your pocket  
Save 'em for a time when your really gonna need 'em oh_ _”_  
—The Band Perry, “If I Die Young”

 

_~1908_

Uncle marches alongside Al in a frantic blur, barely noticing that Winry trails after them in her own haze of concern and feverish demanding of questions that no one answers. Upon reaching the Hohenheim residence, Uncle urges the children to stay out of the way while he conducts his examination, advising them to wait as patiently as they can manage.

Ruby has curled up at between the two as they sit side-by-side on the couch, as though sensing that they are in need of physical comfort. Winry strokes her tortoiseshell head, not one word about how dogs are the superior pet.

After a moment, Brother picks his way down the stairs. Al is stricken by déjà vu, because he could swear that it is nearly a mirror of several days back, when Brother moved with a jaunty nonchalance and a hint of embarrassment, as though hoping no one would call him out on how he’d panicked. But that is absent now—no spring in his step that keeps his feet from dragging, face carefully blank and leaning against the railing as though for support.

“Brother?” Al hates that his voice shakes. He’s seven, almost eight, and doesn’t qualify as a young child anymore. Somewhere between seven and eight is the threshold for “older child”, when you can play pretend and let your imagination run wild, but you are also expected to understand things that had once eluded you. Like fear—what once seemed such an abstract concept has quickly become a familiar pulse in time with his heart. “Is everything alright?”

Brother looks up and blinks, as though he forgot Al was there. Winry’s worried gaze slowly lifts from the cat to peer at him. They’re not even going to pretend he didn’t eavesdrop. He’s not above it, they both know it, and they don’t care about his loose morals. News is news, no matter where it comes from.

For a moment, uncertainty plagues Brother’s expression, long enough for something like panic to rise in Al’s throat. But it suddenly vanishes as a loose, lopsided smile makes itself known on Brother’s face. It doesn’t quite look right, but it is a bit reassuring nonetheless. Brother bounds the rest of the way down the steps and over to them, stopping to kneel down in front of Ruby. In a rare show of affection, he scratches the feline behind the ear, eliciting a rumbling purr.

“Dad’s gonna be fine,” he says, but he’s looking at Ruby instead of them. At the time, Al doesn’t think anything of it, because he knows how soothing a presence cats can be. “He just got sick again ‘cause he didn’t take enough medicine. The dumbass.”

Part of Al is infinitely relieved. Brother has no reason to lie, surely, and humans are a startlingly resistant species. The people of Xerxes were thought to be extinct, but few people know about the survivors who were away when the catastrophe hit, the few traveling scholars or the occasional merchants who were lucky enough to be beyond the borders are unknown to the world.

Another part of him, though, is remembering the vivid red of the blood on the tiles, the wretched look in Dad’s eye as he peered up at him from over the lip of the toilet.

Al tries to bury that other part.

“You shouldn’t call Dad a dumbass, Brother.” The reply is nearly automatic at this point. “It’s mean. He’ll ground you, y’know!”

“Once he’s better,” Winry points out.

“Right.”

Brother doesn’t say anything.

(That should have been Al’s first clue, naïve child that he was)

What feels like an eternity passes before Uncle joins them, peeling off latex gloves with red-stained fingertips. Al tries not to look at them. Uncle explains, in a careful monotone that is of the utmost professionalism and strikingly level, that he can officially confirm the initial diagnosis of yellow fever.

“His symptoms are going to be much worse than before,” Uncle tells them gravely. “Either Sarah or I will be coming over to check on him daily. At this point, boys, the only thing you need to worry about doing is making sure he eats and stays in bed. We’ll worry about the medical aspect.”

“We’ll do that, thank you,” Brother says. There’s a note of something—reserved, in his tone. Which is odd for him, because Brother is never reserved. Nonetheless, Al echoes the sentiment.

Winry’s arms enclose around them both, draping their shoulders like the comfort of a quilt on a cold winter’s night. She murmurs something soft and consoling in their ears, and Al can’t make it out, but it makes something in his chest ache regardless. He finds himself leaning in deep into her hug, while Brother only stands there woodenly and gives an absent nod.

As they leave, Uncle lingers at the door. There is something dark about his eyes, about the way he looks at them. “Keep your heads up, okay boys?”

Al doesn’t understand, but Brother seems to. He nods dutifully, and Uncle departs.

(It is only days later that Al will reflect on that day, and note that not once did Uncle mirror Brother’s claim about how Dad would be just fine)

* * *

The change that comes over Brother makes the previous, subtle transformation from days prior pale in comparison. A new, foreign stringency overtakes him, stiffens the lines of his body and face. The simplest of reassurances are suddenly beneath him, and shadows deepen around his eyes from what Al suspects to be sleepless nights. Yet, whenever Al offers his hand in assistance, the way he should (because Van Hohenheim is his father too, and it is unfair for Brother to bear all this burden, oldest or no), Brother only scowls at him and acts as though he’s been grievously insulted.

It’s not only Brother that has changed, but the entire house. Before, Dad’s sickness had rested heavy on the air, but it had always been a tolerable weight. Now, something about the walls has become almost hostile, and every time Al catches the distant sound of Dad retching violently, he finds himself wrestling with the sudden urge to flee. He seeks refuge at the Rockbells’, who are welcome to have him, and he is welcome to be there. There, the air is lighter, save only for the unspoken rule that they not discuss Dad’s failing condition, as though it would tarnish the sanctity of these walls meant to heal.

“So what’s the difference between the lattices for tungsten and nickel?” Winry asks him, the fifth night after he caught his father spewing blood. They both are in desperate need of a distraction and alchemy seems to do the trick. Maybe it’s because she is more intrigued by alchemy than he is by automail, and they use this mutually intriguing topic to drive away the dark fear that keeps tickling at the back of their skulls. Maybe because it’s easier to practice drawing circles than dismantled and reassembling clocks. Maybe both.

“Tungsten is a lot more complicated, but only because it’s not as common. You’re more likely to find it in electric stuff than anywhere else.” Al slides the book he stole from the study over to her. Brother didn’t even notice that it was missing. Brother has stopped noticing lots of things. “See, the one on the left is better for transmuting tungsten because—”

“Al, Winry.” Granny’s voice drifts from the kitchen. “Supper’s ready.”

Whatever concentration Al has is broken by the heavenly smell of grilled lamb. He and Winry abandon their ever-growing pile of notes in favor of the dining room table.

“Eat up,” Granny says, though she doesn’t need to. They’re both already wolfing the meal down, impatient and forgoing manners to satisfy hunger they neglected in favor of alchemy papers. “I’ll bet it’s better than whatever Ed cooks up, eh Al?”

“Way better,” Al agrees around a mouthful of boiled squash.

He doesn’t say that Brother has given up cooking for them, that he only ever cooks stew for Dad and meets Al’s complaints of hunger with the unsympathetic suggestion to go next door. He doesn’t say how he’s worried, how he doesn’t know what’s come over Brother and that it makes him uneasy.

Al swallows. “Brother’s a jerk, now.”

“ _Such_ a jerk!” Winry agrees emphatically. “I went over to say ‘hi’ and he yelled at me! Apparently I was ‘ _wasting his time_ ’.”

The emptiness of the remaining two chairs is starkly felt. Auntie and Uncle are next door, having left carrying a doctor’s toolkit and a halfhearted promise to be back by dinner. Al tries not think about the fact that they are both needed to check on Dad is a bad sign. He instead comforts himself with the thought that, at the very least, they will force Brother to eat something, because a new sharpness lines his jaw in a way that makes Al think of hunger pangs.  

Granny eyes them levelly, with the scolding look of an old woman who has seen much and knows infinitely more than their child minds can fathom. “I’m sure he has his reasons,” is all she says on the matter.

Like ships in the night, Al passes Auntie and Uncle on the road home. They converse briefly, very briefly, and are enigmatic about Dad’s condition (which is fine with him, he doesn’t need to know all the little details). He informs them that there are leftovers waiting for them if their appetites are still up for it. Auntie tells him that they left Brother in the midst of cooking stew.

Then they part, as strangers would.

Al arrives to the smell of _khoresh bademjan_ , a traditional Xerxean dish. Or, at least as close to an equivalent as a lack of eggplant will allow them. The cats flock to the kitchen like a pack of hungry wolves, meowing rather loudly and twining themselves around the stool Brother is standing on in order to stir the steaming pot on the counter.

“I’m home,” Al says. He makes his way over to the counter, setting the leftovers down. The ceramic clinks softly.

Brother only stirs faster.

Suzie leaps onto the counter and begins nosing at the covered plate. Al swats him away. “Granny says you need to eat.”

“Later,” Brother dismisses. A tray is set up on the counter next to him, with a bowl set on a plate and a glass of apple juice placed next to it. Next to that, a white bottle of what Al assumes to be medicine.

The cats mill around Al’s feet like a swarm, which is something they usually don’t do unless they desperately want something. Felicia climbs up on him, propping her paws against his leg while thrusting her head beneath his hand. He scratches her behind the ear and peers over at the corner, where the stainless-steel food bowls are shockingly empty.

“Brother! Did you not feed the cats?” Suzie has begun licking at the tinfoil. Al scoops him up before he can cut his tongue and sets him down on the ground.

“I’m cooking,” is the snappish reply.

“You couldn’t have been cooking all _day_ ,” Al snaps back.

“ _Al_ , I’m _busy_.”

Sighing loudly, Al wades through the sea of fur to the pantry, where they keep the bags of cat food. He hefts the bag over his shoulder, and the weight of it nearly makes him tip over. The meowing grows louder.

A clang of metal against metal alerts Al to the infuriated glare Brother is sending him. “Will you make them _shut up_?”

“They’re hungry!” Al retorts. The clatter of food pellets rings out as he tips the bag into the bowls. Most of it spills, but the cats hardly care as they claw their way over. Ruby shoves Marmalade out of the way, and Marmalade lets out a hiss of fury. To think these sweet darlings have been driven to such violence!

All because of Brother’s obsession with being the sole carer.

Frustration wells up and spills over. “If you’re not going to let me help, then you need to look after the cats.”

Again, the ladle clangs against the pot. “What part of _busy_ do you not—”

“I’d look after them if you’d let me help!”

It bursts out before Al can stop it, and he snaps his jaw shut with a wince. Predictably, Brother’s glare is absolutely _murderous_ , the kind Al always associates with punches aimed at his face and violent shouts and split knuckles.

Then he calms, abruptly. Heaves a deep breath, and turns back to the stew. He begins ladling it, with a terrifying calm, into the bowl. “You wanna _help_? Then get rid of the cats.”

...Al must have heard that wrong. He _must_ have. “What do you mean ‘get rid of the cats’?”

The ladle clinks against the porcelain lip of the bowl as thick auburn broth slides into it. Steam billows from it. It smells slightly burnt. “Give them away, kick them out, I don’t care. But we can’t take care of them anymore.”

“ _What_!”

“There’s too many!” With one hand, Brother drops the ladle unceremonious back into the pot with a _clink_. He clicks off the stove with the other. “They’re loud and annoying and they pee on the furniture. They need to _go_.”

“No they don’t!” Al can’t believe he’s hearing this—and from _Brother_ , of all people. Brother, who was the one to find Socks on the patio three years ago, who brought home Felicia and Suzie and wore Dad down until he relented. Brother, who attempted a hunger strike upon being denied a sixth. “Dad wouldn’t want—”

“ _Dad_ is _incredibly_ sick,” Brother grinds out. There is venom as he says it, an acid that sprays from his words and sizzles against the floor. His eyes smolder like liquid gold. “And you’re gonna bug him over something like _this_?”

One of the worst things about having a cynic for a brother is that sometimes they’re right. This matter pales in comparison to Dad’s illness, and Al knows it.

He trembles with helpless fury. _Brother_ is the one saying these horrible things. Brother, who used to laugh and land sarcastic quips and used to race Al to the bakery every Sunday. Brother, who used to compete with him over lessons and catch him in choke-holds and excitedly talk about alchemy with him for hours.

Brother, who takes the tray cautiously into his hands and carefully dismounts the stool. Who slowly makes his way over to the stairs without even a second glance.

“You’re not stupid, Al. So don’t bug him.” Al watches in dismay as Brother climbs the steps. His back is to Al, and it looks so very cold. “Those cats need to be gone by morning.”

* * *

Later that night, Al creeps out of bed with the intent to speak to Uncle and Auntie about Brother’s behavior. They are not his or Brother’s parents, Al knows, but with their current parent confined to bedrest and their chronically-absent mother god-knows-where, they’re the only people he can think to address it. Besides, the change is likely the result of Dad getting sick, and they’re doctors. They must deal with this sort of thing quite often. They’ll definitely know what to do.

A stripe of light spills out from the slightly ajar doorway at the end of the hall. Suzie is splayed out on the floor just in front of the doorway, ears perked and usually lazy eyes attentive as shouting drifts through the crack.

Against his better judgement, Al finds himself creeping closer. He keeps his body flat against the wall to avoid setting off that creaky floorboard Dad never got around to fixing.

“You _need_ to take your medicine,” Brother hisses. Al has grown familiar with the sharpness of Brother’s tone over the last few days, but this is different, somehow. It reminds him of glass shard that litter the floor, a careless sharpness that in itself does no harm, only has the potential to harm those who wander barefoot.

“Watch your tone, young man,” Dad’s voice answers. Some of the sternness is lost by the hoarseness of his throat, the way the words wobble like they can’t keep their balance. But the general idea is still there. A father, reprimanding his son.

“ _After_ you take your pills.”

“Edward—”

“Why won’t you take them?” The sound of someone stomping their foot makes Suzie sit up a little further. Al bites his lip. “You don’t get _better_ if you don’t take them, Dad. That’s a no-brainer.”

“You better not be calling me stupid, son.” Despite the threat, Dad’s tone lightens with a touch of almost-humor.

“I don’t need to,” Ed deadpans. Suzie rolls onto his back disinterestedly. “It’s obvious.”

A weak laugh follows, but it ends with a pained moan. Al’s chest clenches painfully. He can’t imagine how much pain Dad’s in.

“Edward,” Dad says. There’s something entreating in his tone, something gentle and tempered.

“ _What_.” Brother’s voice sounds like the clang of metal, like the ladle banging against the pot after a careless jerk of the hand.

“...don’t speak to your father like that.”

Something thumps loudly, and Al nearly jumps out of his skin. Suzie bolts to his feet. What the heck was _that_?

“ _Fine_ ,” Brother all but spits. It’s a ragged sound, sharp and fraying and vehement. “You can ground me _after_ you get better—so take your _goddamn medicine_.”

Dad retorts something about Brother minding his language, but it is drowned by the steady thump of feet stomping their way towards the door. Panic bolts down Al’s spine—if Brother sees him, oh, it will be _bad_.

Without thinking, he ducks into the bathroom. The door doesn’t close fully behind him, leaves enough room for him to see the hallway from. He winces as the door to Dad’s room slams open, and the haphazard scraping of claws as Suzie jumps to his feet, followed by another frustrated exclamation from Brother. Al watches as a creamy streak blurs past, then zips down the stairs with frantic paw steps.

More growling and grousing. Brother’s gold hair is stark against the darkness as he storms over to the stairs.

He stops, arms akimbo and fists planted on his hips. There is a sharp, hunched tension in his shoulders and the muscles of his back. Al cannot see his face, but he can imagine the venomous glare. It fills him with a dark rush of anger, because it is not Suzie’s fault he happened to be lying there. It’s not Dad’s fault he got sick, either! Brother is just—being unreasonable and difficult and—

Brother sighs.

It’s a strangely heavy sound. Al watches in mild surprise as his shoulders—no, not “relax”, more like _slump_. His head dips, too, as though it simply weighs too much for his neck.

He stays like that for what feels like an eternity. Then he straightens, head shooting up so suddenly that Al nearly jumps. Unceremoniously, he vanishes from Al’s line of sight, marching off like a toy soldier.

Al lingers for a moment longer. After Brother’s footsteps quiet completely, he pokes his head out tentatively. The light to Dad’s room is still on.

Biting the inside of his cheek, he creeps over to the door. The hinges creak as he tentatively nudges it open—he winces.

“Ed?” Dad croaks. The sound of it makes Al’s throat tight.

“...no.” Hesitantly, Al pokes his head around the lip of the door. “It’s, um, me.”

The dull light of the lamp casts a muted ocher glow from where it sits on the nightstand, glittering in the lenses of Dad’s discarded spectacles and dyeing him a buttery yellow shade. His unwashed hair pools on the pillow, and the starchy blankets have been pulled high up to his chest, tucked in tightly the way you would for a young child. Dully, Dad’s eyes focus on him, surprise blooming slowly behind a fog of misery. “...Al.”

Swallowing, Al takes a few steps forward. The rank of sickness and blood lingers in the air. Dad’s face is gaunt and emaciated, his cheekbones jutting out from beneath papery skin. “I wanted to see how you were doing. Um...”

A ghost of a smile flickers across Dad’s face. He sets an arm across his stomach, only to grimace as though pained and set it aside. “I’m—well, not alright. But I’m alive, at least.”

He says that like it’s supposed to be a joke. It falls flat.

“Wanna come here?”

Giving a nod, Al picks his way over to his father’s bedside. It is not that he is afraid of being too loud, but that oppressive, crypt-like air is back, and he feels as though disturbing it is something greatly taboo.

Closer up, Dad looks even worse. Bags cling to the underside of his eyes, bloodshot and crimson in a way that wars with the strange, subtle yellowness that has taken residence in his complexion. It’s a yellowness that has nothing to do with the honeyed complexion of a Xerxean descendant, and it’s actually a touch unsettling. The wan smile Dad flashes, likely an attempt at reassurance, only serves to worry Al further.

“Hey, kiddo.” Dad sounds particularly weak. His smile is a strained thing that looks as though the very effort to maintain it leeches all his energy. “How are you holding up?”

Wow. Here Dad is, confined to bed and absolutely _miserable_ —and he’s worrying about Al. _Wow_.

“ _I’m_ okay,” Al says, perhaps a little more forcefully than necessary. “Are you?”

“Yeah.” Dad’s eyes flutter and grow half-lidded. For half a second, Al’s insides frost over with something he cannot name—but then Dad’s gaze refocuses back on him and relief trickles down his spine. “Yeah, I’m okay. For now, anyway.”

There’s something about the way Dad says that, something ominous and worrisome. But before Al can comment on it, he notices the white bottle sitting next to the folded spectacles on the nightstand. The medicine Brother took up to him earlier—the lid doesn’t look as though it’s been opened.

“Hey Dad?”

“Mm?”

Al picks up the bottle and turns it over in his hands. It definitely feels a lot fuller than it should. “How come you won’t take your medicine?”

Something in Dad’s expression grows somber at that. He exhales through his nostrils, with the heaviness and weariness of it the same as Brother’s earlier sigh, and the action seems to deflate him somehow. Subtly, he turns his face away. “Because it doesn’t help any.”

“Medicine is _supposed_ to help,” Al answers doubtfully.

The corner of Dad’s mouth twitches subtly. Not a smile, but something wry and almost sarcastic. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

A kind of helpless frustration lances through Al. But he bites his tongue, and sets the bottle back down on the nightstand.

“I’m sorry about all this,” Dad says softly. The hoarseness of his voice nearly overpowers his words. Al looks up sharply at him, blinking. “Putting you and Ed through this—it’s not fair.”

And Al’s jaw nearly drops. Unbelievable! “It’s not _your_ fault! Dad—it’s not your fault you got sick! You don’t have to apologize!”

“Al—”

“You don’t,” he asserts firmly. Honestly! Blaming yourself for getting so horribly sick! He thought Dad was supposed to be _smart_.

“Still...” Dad breathes in shallowly. Exhales deeply. There is a raggedness to it. “Did you know I was eleven when I lost my parents?”

In part, Al does. It was not often spoken of, slightly less so than the topic of Mom, but Granny mentioned it once, how it was part of the reason there exists such a strong connection between the Rockbell family and their own. Dad grew up an only child, orphaned young—it was the reason they had no other family, no uncles or aunts save for those they had adopted for themselves and no grandparents save for the neighbor who treated them as if she had three grandchildren instead of one. And he knew almost nothing about his mother’s side of the family, if she had siblings or parents or where she even came from.

Before Al can ask what this has to do with anything, the door opens again. A flutter of panic goes through him as Brother emerges, his shoulders hunched as he clutches a pillow in one hand and a blanket in the other. With one foot, Brother kicks the door closed behind him. This alerts Dad, who turns his face subtly to peer at the foot of the bed.

As Brother drops his burden on the rug, Dad’s brow scrunches. “Ed? What are you doing?”

Brother looks up sharply, eyes narrowed into what might have been meant as a defiant glare—but it softens and widens when he notices Al standing there. Al tenses, expecting a fit of harsh words or scolding. However, Brother looks away the next moment, turning his scowl back to Dad. “I’m sleeping here tonight,” Brother explains tersely, but there’s not as much bite as Al expects. “Speaking of which—Al, you should be in bed.”

He sounds like a parent, and he isn’t. Brother is only older by one year. One. But Dad’s exhausted sigh interrupts the protests budding on the tip of Al’s tongue. “You don’t have to watch over me, Ed.”

“Uncle said to,” Brother retorts. He drops to his knees to set up the pillow.

“Go sleep in your bed.”

Ignoring him, Brother flaps the blanket out so that is falls slowly and free of wrinkles. “You gonna make me?”

Resignedly, Dad stares up at the ceiling.

Having settled that, Brother turns to Al. The expression on his face is one of annoyance, perhaps, but it’s hard to tell because the exhaustion there, the overall weariness, clouds his eyes and makes it difficult to determine what swirls beneath the surface. “Al, go to bed.”

Indignation sparks in Al’s belly at being ordered. “How come I can’t stay here too?”

“‘Cause unlike Dad, I can make you leave,” Brother answers smugly.

“Nuh uh.” Brother may be better at transmutation and alchemy, may have surpassed Al in that aspect—but Al always wins their fights. It’s why he has the top bunk.

“I’ve got a pillow.” To prove his point, Brother scoops his pillow up and begins fluffing it. The action is clearly meant to be an intimidation of some kind, but it misses its mark.

“ _Boys_ ,” Dad groans.

Ultimately, Al leaves the room. But not because he is intimidated or yielding to Brother, thank you. It’s because he needs to get up early and find new homes for their cats. Comforting as animals can be, they have bigger things to worry about.

* * *

It’s been nine days since Dad’s condition took a turn for the worst. Al cannot remember when the Rockbells came over—perhaps it was early in the morning, before the cresting of daybreak roused him from a fitful night’s slumber. Perhaps they had arrived sometime last night, or even before that. Or maybe they came sometime this afternoon and he let them in, greeted them with a smile he cannot remember. He does not know. He doesn’t even know what time it is, how much sleep he’s gotten in the last couple days, if the sun has risen yet. All he knows is that Auntie and Uncle are upstairs, checking on Dad while Granny and Winry are downstairs with him.

Granny putters around the kitchen, murmuring something sympathetic about how they probably haven’t had a decent homecooked meal in a while. That’s not true, because Al gets a homecooked meal every time he goes over to her house for dinner, but it is not worth protesting over. Meanwhile, Winry has curled up on the couch next to him, an alchemy book sprawled across her lap as she tries vainly to get Al to engage, to teach her basic things that he knows she has already picked up on. Her animated chatter is wasted on him, going in one ear and out the other as he peers past her, at the staircase that Auntie and Uncle marched up a couple hours ago.

On Winry’s other side, Brother is leaning against the armrest—no, “slumping” is a better word for the way he is throwing his whole upper body against it, though it is not a languid action, his body radiating tension and anxiety—in a way that Al can only make out the back of his head.

There is something significantly tenser in the air, compared to the other visits. For one, Auntie and Uncle never brought Granny and Winry along. Al suspects that Granny is here to watch them, and Winry is also here because they don’t want to leave her alone in the house, which in itself is strange because, usually, only one of them goes up to check on Dad while the other stays with the brothers to keep an eye on them. If Uncle is the one to vanish up the stairs, Auntie stays downstairs to distract them with too-cheerful conversation and vice versa. Al has quickly learned that when things change, it is usually in relation to Dad’s condition and it’s never for the better.

More significantly, they insisted that Brother wait downstairs. That’s never happened before. Brother has always lingered upstairs whenever Auntie or Uncle comes to visit, ever-attentive and ready to retrieve anything at their request. But now they insist that Brother stay away, that his presence is an interference in a way that it hadn’t been before. It’s disconcerting, to say the least.

Unease hangs heavy overhead, like the Sword of Damocles tied to an impossibly-thin thread that barely keeps it from falling and spearing them. But the thread is starting to fray. Al can feel it. And whatever it is—whatever has been making it harder for him to sleep, has been making the walls feel hostile and his gut curdle with a strange, ominous sort of anticipation—is going to crash down atop them. Hard.

Seeming to give up the pretense of normalcy, Winry folds the book closed and crosses her legs around it. Her knee jabs into Al’s thigh. She turns to look at Granny, the length of her hair brushing her shoulders. “Hey Granny?”

“Yes dear?” Granny is arranging things on the counter in preparation for dinner. Al wants to suggest she make some hot chocolate for Dad, but he can’t seem to find the words.

Teeth worry at Winry’s lower lip. Though she is facing away from him, Al can see enough of her profile to catch the silent fear in her eyes. “Uncle Van’s gonna be okay, right?”

Granny pauses.

“Of course he is.” It’s Brother who responds. There is something sharp and fervent in his tone. A willpower that can make things so simply by believing them into existence. “He’s—He’s gonna be fine.”

Normally, that would be enough for Al. Normally, that would be enough because Brother has no reason to lie, especially about something like this. But the sword hangs high overhead with a glittering blade and the image of Dad vomiting blood into the toilet blooms in Al’s memory. He remembers the gauntness of Dad’s face, the yellowing of his skin, the cynical twitch of his smile.

“Are you sure?” Al asks. There’s an unspoken force bubbling beneath his skin, writhing in his belly. He hesitates to name it, hesitates to acknowledge it for what it is.

“I’m _sure_.” But Brother puts far more force behind it than is necessary, and it somehow makes Al’s throat tighten. “He’s gonna—he’s gonna be fine. You hear me? Dad’s gonna be fine. He’s... he’s not gonna die.”

Al’s breath catches.

There it is, then. The sensation given name. _Fear_. And now that it’s been named, it pulses sharp and cold in Al’s veins, so impossibly _there_ that he can’t even attempt to ignore it or shove it into some far corner of his mind anymore. It’s an electrifying thing, like touching a live wire that burns away thought and floods him wholly, completely, with an unholy pressure.

“Who said Dad was going to _die_?!” It comes out louder than he intended, comes out as something throaty and vaguely panicked. But it’s a reasonable question. The words “sick” or “getting worse” have always been used in relation to Dad’s condition and no one—not Brother or Uncle or Auntie or Granny—has ever said anything about _dying_.

“Ed?” Winry whimpers.

Brother doesn’t say anything, but his shoulders slowly hunch.

Al thinks back to Dad and blood, Dad and yellow skin, Dad and eyes clouded with misery and pain. Dad, apologizing and talking about losing his own parents.

No.

Winry breathes in sharply.

Footsteps.

Al looks up sharply as Auntie slowly makes her way down the stairs. She moves as though with arthritic joints, one hand clinging to the railing. Shadows cling to exhausted eyes. “Boys? Can you come upsta—”

Brother is already leaping to his feet and racing up the staircases. Al chases at his heels.

Dad’s room has grown all the more eerie, somehow. The curtains are drawn, so the only light comes from the fickle glow of a lantern lit on the nightstand. Shadows pool deeply, play across the room like a boogeyman, or some other wretched creature that takes delight in the suffering of others. Uncle lingers in the corner of the room like a wraith, his arms crossed and his eyes carefully averted as though ashamed to bear witness. Something sags his shoulders that Al dare not think of as defeat.

They find themselves at Dad’s bedside. The once-white sheets are spotted with foul-smelling red, similar to the trickle out of the corner of Dad’s mouth. His breathing is a harsh, ragged sound that blares loudly against the eerie quiet, each inhale and exhale like a knife to Al’s chest. Unfocused, Dad’s eyes are half-lidded and aimed at the ceiling, looking without looking, or perhaps looking at something that no one else can see. The smell of antiseptic mixes with something else, a cloying rank that Al has never smelled before.

“I wan’ you both t’ lis’en.” Dad’s words are horrendously slurred and painfully breathy. His face is unnaturally yellow, and it’s not just the lanternlight. “In th’ closet. There’s a chest. Money in it. Saved it up, over th’ years. Should— Should be ‘nough—”

“What are you talking about?” It’s Brother who says that, something forcefully and sharply bright about his tone. It only serves to clash hard against the bags beneath his eyes. When did those appear? How did Al not notice how ragged Brother has become? “We don’t need to worry about that! You’re gonna be fine!”

“Ed...”

“You’re gonna be _fine_ ,” Brother repeats, and this time it comes out harsh and broken and grating. Al watches numbly as Ed’s hands find the edge of the sheets and curl into tight, trembling fists. “You’re gonna _take your damn medicine_ , and you’re gonna _get better_!”

A beat of silence passes. Brother has his gaze slightly lowered, as though afraid to look up. Al grabs his left wrist and _squeezes_. The pain is somehow a welcome distraction.

Dad swallows dryly. “Ed—"

“You _need_ to _get better_ —”

“ _Edward_.” The force in Dad’s voice silences Brother, but his stern look is quick to dissolve, as though it’s merely too exhausting to maintain. “ _Please_.”

Brother sniffs loudly.

There is a patch of dried blood in Dad’s hair, Al notices absently, as his father turns to him. “M’research. In th’ study?” They both nod, because they know all about Dad’s research. It’s one of the things they are not allowed to look into, something private and not a plaything for children. Al’s heart thumps loudly. Is Dad asking them to— “Leave it. Not... don’ worry ‘bout it.”

“But Dad,” Brother starts, only to be silenced by Dad’s soft, agonized groan. He draws back a little and averts his gaze almost guilty.

“Look aft’ eesh other.” Dad pants, almost, as though each breath is a struggle against an imaginary weight. The pain in it is unbearably audible. Al’s heart twists in some vain attempt to crawl out of his ribcage. “‘Kay?”

“Promise,” Al says automatically, planting his palms hard against the mattress. The springs creak beneath his weight.

“Promise,” Brother repeats dully, eyes glassy.

Grimacing, Dad tilts his face. He peers past them with eyes are bloodshot and deep yellow in places where they should be white. “Urey? You’ll—look aft’ ‘em, yeah?”

Al glances over his shoulder, at the doorway where Uncle lingers as though convinced his presence is an unwelcome invader. Slowly, Uncle raises his head, and Al can see the sheer weariness distilled on his face, the sorrow and the pain and the—not _grief_ , surely.

“Of course,” he says, so softly Al almost doesn’t hear it. Though not Al’s uncle by blood or even any legalities, Dad often groused about Uncle Urey’s presence in his childhood to the point where Al began to think of them as brothers, almost. He wonders, now, if that is a reciprocated bond.

“Good.” Dad sounds so _tired_. Al turns back and finds himself blinking hard in an attempt to ward off the itch settling there. The bleariness in Dad’s eyes only grows stronger, and he looks on the verge of falling unconscious. “Thas’... sorry. Couldn’t... couldn’t do it... keep m’promise... tell ‘er m’sorry...”

“D-Dad?” Al reaches out and clutches his father’s hand. Hard callouses line Dad’s fingers, the kind you get from holding pencils between your fingers or clinging tightly to a nub of chalk. “Who... Who are you talking to?”

The only answer he receives is Dad squeezing his hand a little too hard. His skin is cold and clammy, and his gaze lingers on the ceiling, somewhere Al can’t see. “Wan’ed t’ see you... one las’ time... sorry...”

Al’s throat feels tight. At his side, Brother has his head bowed, face concealed by too-long bangs like curtains.

Dad’s eyes grow half-lidded and dull. “Trisha...”

And then his grip on Al’s hand grows slack. Then he’s silent, and far too still.

* * *

Al wails and sobs and _begs_ his father to wake up. For the light to return to his eyes and the smile to his face and the breath to his lungs. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand. Dad was sick, yes. _Very_ sick. But no one said he was dying and he had no idea, he didn’t know—

No. That’s not entirely true, is it? There was some small, distant part of him that always suspected, but was desperate to ignore.

Uncle has to scoop him up and carry him out, kicking and screaming and unable to even see straight for the tears in his eyes. Brother follows silently, his shoulders trembling and his head bowed as though in surrender.

That night, Al cries harder than he ever thinks he’s cried in his short, simple life. At some point, he remembers someone hugging him, but he can’t remember who. It could have been Winry, but it might also have been Granny, or Auntie, or Uncle, or even Brother. He only remembers strong shoulders and arms encircling in an attempt to still the sobs wracking his body.

Two days later, they host the funeral. Al fights fresh tears as he gets dressed that morning, his clothes too black and the pain too fresh. Brother ends up having to do his tie because his hands are trembling too hard. He lets Al sob against his chest.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Brother says softly. He doesn’t hug Al or stroke his hair or do anything remotely comforting. He just allows Al to lean against him for a while. “Promise.”

It’s a nice service, or so Al is told. He isn’t really paying attention. He is too busy shaking as he tries not to outright sob and letting himself be held by someone (he doesn’t remember who). One thing he remembers distinctly is Brother standing over him, with eyes as hard as polished topaz, respectfully downcast, and a face that gives away nothing.

Quite a few people attend—Dad was well-liked in Risembool, after all. Granny ultimately delivers most of the eulogy, though everyone says a little something. She talks mostly about how she knew him for a very long time, how he’d keep her company when Uncle was off studying and they’d have spend long nights drinking and talking (Granny jokes about how Dad was her drinking buddy, even if he was terribly weak). Uncle talks about how they grew up together and got into all sorts of trouble, usually involving barns and pitchforks. Auntie talks about the first time she met him, with his nose in a book and so engrossed in his research that it took him a whole half-hour to registered her presence. Others talk about how kind he was, how responsible, how reliable and loyal and clever and brilliant—

And Al just wants his _dad_ back.

The worst part is when they lower the coffin. Al has to look away, and winces every time he hears the sound of a shovel striking dirt. Uncle and a couple other men help dig the hole, and then fill it back up.

They stay well after people begin to disperse. Al’s eyes are burning and aching with dryness, but the tears still come. Smeared snot ruins his sleeves. He can feel the gentle touch of Brother’s hand lingering on his shoulder, but only Al sobs hard and loudly.

Some time after the sun begins to sink on the horizon, Uncle comes to check on them. “It’s getting cold,” he says, gently, oh so gently. Al wants to _scream_. “How about you guys come inside? Ma’s making dinner, if you like.”

“Can we stay at your place tonight?” Brother asks. Al doesn’t remember how Brother says it, only that he wished he asked instead, because he’s not yet ready to face a house where Dad isn’t holed up in the study or in the kitchen ready to greet them with a smile.

Uncle dips his head subtly. There is a deep, grieving tenderness in his eyes. “Of course. You’re always welcome.”

This is how Al finds himself at the Rockbells’ dinner table, sitting before a hot plate of something that, any other day, might have been appetizing. As it is, he only pokes at it absently with his fork until the steam faded and the meat grows cold. He feels Winry’s worried gaze from across the table, can hear Auntie and Brother having a half-hearted conversation, can see Uncle and Granny continuously sharing worried looks. Den noses at Al’s legs, but backs away when Al kicks to ward her off. With a whimper, the dog pads off into the kitchen in search of food scraps.

“Al.” It’s Brother’s voice that ultimately breaks through the haze. Al peers up at him, but Ed isn’t look at him, instead focused on cutting a particularly tough chunk of meat. “You should eat something.”

Disinterestedly, Al peers back at his meal. Mashed potatoes and cooked green beans and boiled beats. He sighs, dropping his fork to the side. “Not hungry.”

Brother peers at him for a moment. Al thinks there might be understanding there, or even sympathy, but he turns back to his meal the next moment. “Eat anyway.”

Al pushes his plate away. “I’m fine.”

A sigh of exasperation to his left. “You haven’t eaten all day.”

(technically, he’s barely eaten since Dad died, hasn’t left his room since then, has only even left the house for the funeral, Brother had to keep bringing him food and insisting he eat, please eat Al, _please_ )

“I’m fine,” Al repeats dully.

“You need to eat something.”

“At least try,” Auntie intervenes, not unkindly.

He ignores her, instead casting a sidelong glare at Brother. “Leave me alone.”

“After you eat something.”

Al’s nails bite his palms. “ _Stop_ it.”

“After you _eat_ something,” Brother retorts sharply.

Normally, Al is slow to anger. He’s not the type to snap or act out of spite—but he’s tired and hurting and Brother’s demanding tone is starting to grate on his temper. Taking his fork, he stabs a beat and then shoves it in his mouth. He makes a point of chewing, to which Brother rolls his eyes, and swallows even more pointedly. His fork clatters as he drops it against the plate. “ _Happy_?”

“Sure. When you finish your dinner.” With a pointed sort of apathy, Brother pops a green bean into his mouth. “You need to take care of yourself, okay?”

“ _Make_ me,” Al growls. And yes, maybe he is being petulant and stubborn and childish. But he doesn’t _care_. It doesn’t _matter_. _Nothing_ matters. Dad is _gone_ and it’s not _fair_ and _nothing’s_ fair and he _doesn’t want to eat anything_.

Brother turns to him with a look of exhausted exasperation. It is a look usually reserved for parents dealing with petulant, unruly children, and the sight of it only serves to make Al’s hackles rise. “Fine,” Brother says, though it is not a resignation, merely a grudging delay of the inevitable argument. “But you should at least drink your juice. You’re probably dehydrated. Y’know. From crying so much.”

The thing about crying is that it’s not the show of weakness that most will have you believe. It’s not something to be ashamed of, but isn’t something to speak so casually about, either. Tears are blood seeping from wounds in the soul, and there’s something silent and sacred about them. To be so blatant about it, so direct—it’s almost insulting.

It also serves as a reminder that Brother did not cry, that his eyes were as hard and unfeeling as gemstones.

Painfully, it _also_ serves to remind Al that Brother knew—knew that their _father_ was _dying_ and he _didn’t tell him_.

Grief tangles with fury and helplessness and a raw, fresh pain. The resulting knot births something vile, ugly. His throat constricts and his chest burns. He thinks he might start crying again if his eyes weren’t so dry. There is a tingling in his hands that might be pain or the urge to bang his knuckles against someone’s jaw.

“And you _didn’t_.”

Even if there was no bite in Al’s tone, the unpleasant sentiment is clear. But Brother, tactless and contentious as he is, only meets it with an impassive look. “Just drink your juice, Al.”

Brother’s eyes are narrowed, but they are carefully apathetic, betray no anger or sorrow or even a hint of grief. The sight of it is sufficient to make Al’s blood _boil_.

Before he can think too deeply, he finds himself hissing, “I bet you don’t even _care_ that Dad died!”

A fork pauses just in front of Brother’s mouth. Silence permeates the air.

Metal clatters against porcelain, which makes Den let out a bark of alarm. Brother turns to him sharply, eyes smoldering. “ _What_ did you say?”

“You heard me!” Al’s vision is blurring. The dryness in his eyes is hot and almost painful. Brother seems to be right about the dehydration, but that only serves to make him madder. “You don’t care at all!”

“ _Shut_ up.”

“Make me!” Al all but spits. He thinks about the way Brother screamed and shouted at their _dying father_ with such carelessness. About how Brother lied and lied and kept lying. How he didn’t flinch or cry or even sniffle the night that Al bawled his eyes out. “I bet you _wanted_ Dad to get sick just so— so— so you could boss me around!”

“Guys,” Winry starts weakly.

“Stay out of this!” they both snap, which makes her shrink back and whimper.

Ed turns back to him sharply. Al barely catches his expression—the storm of fury and indignation and utter disbelief and something else, something dark and flickering like a shadow beneath a candleflame—before he turns away again. His feet _slap_ the floor as he hops out from his seat. Without so much as a word of parting, his stomping footsteps echo as he storms off.

The tension lingers long after Brother has vanished up the stairs. Auntie and Uncle peer at each other, apparently engaged in a silent conversation of lip-quirks, arching brows, and subtle hand gestures. Winry looks at Al like she can’t decide if she wants to hit him or hug him or both. Al just glares at his still-full plate and blinks at the annoying dryness in his eyes, throat stinging with acrimony.

Granny sets her napkin down. “Say, Winry? How about you and your dad prepare the guestroom?”

“Good idea,” Uncle says. Winry peers sheepishly up at Al from beneath her bangs, but allows her father to take her by the hand and escort her upstairs, though her worried gaze remains on him the entire time. Uncle glances surreptitiously over his shoulder, mouth pressed into a grim line, but he looks away quickly. They vanish up the stairs.

“I’m going to check on Ed,” Granny announces as she eases herself out of her chair. “After that, I think I’m going to retire for the evening.”

“It has been a long day,” Auntie agrees quietly.

“Indeed.” Den tentatively pokes her head out from behind the counter and follows Granny as she makes her way up the stairs. “Goodnight Sarah, Al.”

Auntie wipes her mouth. Her plate is only half-empty. “Goodnight Pinako.”

Al mumbles something that might be a response.

After Granny has disappeared, Auntie begins to clear the table. She says something about packing up leftovers, but it goes in one ear and out the other. He is only vaguely aware of the shuffle and clank of dishes, until it goes abruptly silent.

A warm hand touches his back. He peers up at concerned blue eyes.

“You _should_ drink something,” Auntie says, not unkindly. With the other hand, she presents him with a glass of water. He didn’t even hear the faucet run. “Please?”

It is only because she asked and not demanded that he complies. The water is cool, slightly metallic. His esophagus aches, like it can’t decide whether to swallow or cough it back up. After he drains it entirely, he sets it back down on the table. Auntie’s hand lingers on his back.

Slowly, surely, she begins to rub circles. It’s meant to be a comforting action, he’s sure, but instead it just comes off as slightly patronizing. Still, he allows it, because some comfort is better than nothing. “Better?”

“No,” he bites out. Dad is still gone and now the glass is empty.

She sighs softly. He feels her chin brush the top of his head. “I’m sorry. It really sucks.”

“Sucks” doesn’t even begin to cover it. That burning itch of tears comes back with a vengeance, and he must not be completely rehydrated, because his eyes get wet but don’t spill over. He curls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them. “I miss Dad.”

Her hand finds his shoulder. “I know.”

 _No_. She _doesn’t_. A fresh wave of pain crashes over him, and he thinks back to Brother’s dry eyes again. A pang of betrayal all but cleaves his chest in two. “Brother—Brother doesn’t care _at all_!”

“I’m sure he does,” Auntie murmurs reassuringly. He thinks this is what it might be like, if he were to have a mother—and for the first time, he feels a spark of resentment towards the woman who has been absent from his life for so long. “I _know_ he does.”

“He doesn’t,” Al protests, but he doesn’t really have the strength to fight. The fleece of his sweater sleeve grates against his nose. Betrayal and acrimony throb acidly in his veins. “He _doesn’t_.”

Auntie threads a hand through his hair. “He does. People just grieve in different ways is all.”

He doesn’t really know what that means, but he’s too tired and emotionally wrung-out to care too much. When she suggests he get ready for bed, he doesn’t protest, just nods dully and obeys.

* * *

They stay in the spare room. Not one of the medical rooms usually occupied by patients, but the one upstairs next to Winry’s room. Brother ends up sleeping on the floor, because the awful tension between them is not meant to be confined in a shared bed. Surprisingly, Ed doesn’t put up much of a fight, only arranges his pillow and quilt, then plops down without a word.

“Night,” Brother says to the silence.

Al doesn’t say anything. Just turns the lamp out and allows the room to become submerged in darkness.

At some point during the night, the sound of rustling sheets and footsteps rouses him. He hears the sound of hinges creaking, the door slowly opening and shutting. He rolls over to find Brother’s space conspicuously empty.

With a frown, Al throws his own sheets off and carefully makes his way out into the hall. He reaches the staircase in time to catch the front door opening, and to glimpse Brother slipping out into the night before the door closes behind him.

A fresh wellspring of betrayal rises within him. Brother doesn’t just not care about Dad—he’s completely abandoning Al! How _dare_ he? Pretending to act all offended earlier, when he was planning on pulling this? The absolute—and Al hesitates to use this word, because it’s _really_ bad—bastard!

 _We’ll just see about that_ , Al thinks, and darts down the stairs. Brother had better think twice if he thought he could be rid of Al so easily.

The night is alive all around him. It’s a hot, dry night in midspring where the bushed rustle and the grass shifts and the darkness whispers secrets in a language Al doesn’t know. Something about the familiarity of the town has been stripped now that daylight has abandoned it. Patchy clouds drift lazily across a bloated, faintly yellow gibbous moon, so every now and again the gloom deepens, and the movement in the shadows becomes an ominous thing. Behind any tree or beneath any rock, a boogeyman could linger, waiting to snatch him up and rip the meat from his bones. The very thought has his heart thundering in his ears.

Yellow light, cast out from the lantern Brother totes, burns like a beacon. Al stays to the far end of the road and maintains a large enough distance to see by, but not be seen by. He isn’t sure what compels him to follow—it might be a spiteful impulse, or something stubborn or desperate or something else entirely—any more than he knows what compels Brother to stride down the road at a brisk pace so late at night. Still, he follows, and tries not to let the eeriness of a dark, rustling night distract him.

To Al’s surprise, he follows Brother to the graveyard, of all places. The yellowness of the lanternlight burns as it bathes the headstones, catching bundles of flowers and the shiny glint of photographs and other mementos left by grievers. Al lingers at the fence, uncertain—it feels wrong to tread on the graves in the dead of night.

( _just as wrong as walking into Dad’s room when he was sick_ )

Brother stops in front of a headstone, and very carefully sits down in front of it. He folds his legs beneath his body, setting the lantern down at his side. The ochre light bathes the writing carved into the grey stone— _Van Hohenheim, Beloved Father and Friend, 1873 to 1908_.

Al blinks.

“You’re a real dumbass,” Brother says quietly. The sound of his voice is wrong, somehow, against the living stillness of rustling and distant movement. “You know that? I _told_ you to take your damn medicine—but you didn’t, and now we’re here. ‘Cause you’re a total _dumbass_. What the _hell_ , Dad?”

A beat of silence. Al places his hands on the fence and grips it hard. His nails dig into soft, weathered wood.

The glow of the lantern has become something strangely ominous, an almost invasive presence. It casts Brother in a deep black silhouette, and makes his shadow stretch long and warped behind him. Brother’s shoulders hunch, and his head lowers.

“...what am I supposed to do now?” There is something breathy and thick in Brother’s voice. Al watches in amazement as Brother’s shoulders begin to tremble. “ _Huh_? What am I supposed to _do_? I’m the oldest, so I have to look out for Al and everything and I get that—but what am I supposed to _do_?”

That... doesn’t make any sense. Where is it written down that Brother has to look after him? True, he’s older, but he’s also stubborn and volatile and immature and—

And has been looking after Dad since day one.

“I mean— _dammit_ , Dad!” The roughness of Brother’s shout makes Al jump. All around, the night seems to grow inexplicably quiet, as though every creature and force of nature is as in awe as Al of this sight. “How am I s-supposed to do this on my own?! I have _no idea_ w-what I’m d-doing!”

Al’s fingernails dig deeper into the wood. He feels like his skin has gone hard, like he’s been petrified and cannot move. All of a sudden, Brother seems to have shrunk, small and vulnerable and shadowy frailty against the overpowering brightness of the lantern.

_“People just grieve in different ways is all.”_

“I’m s-scared,” Brother says quietly. It sounds like a confession of some kind, something private and deeply personal and meant to stay locked away until the grave. “I’m _scared_ , Dad.”

A hushed, hiccupping sound fills the air. With a sudden jolt, Al realizes that Brother is _sobbing_.

“I’m _scared_.” Ed’s voice gets thicker and rougher. “I do-on’t know what I’m d-doing.” His shoulders rattle with sobs. Al’s chest clenches. “I n-need you _here_. We _need_ you! Why’d you h-have to g-go and l- _leave_ us all a-alone?! _Huh_?!”

Unable to think, unable to so much as breathe, Al watches. Watches Brother’s shoulders shake with sobs and watches his head lower and the air fill with loud whimpers. It is surreal, to see his contentious, fierce-eyed older brother breaking down like this, sobbing like a child before their father’s grave.

“You dumb b-bastard...”

Brother is not a particularly quiet crier, nor is he overtly loud. But the longer Al stares, the more he feels like an intruder.

He suddenly remembers—Ed, always at Dad’s bedside. Ed, always insisting that Dad take his medicine. Ed, slaving over the stove to make subpar meals and skipping school in order to do so. Ed, trying to get Al to eat and looking after him, not even shedding a tear. Ed, doing Al’s tie and letting him sob into his chest.

Ed, promising everything would be okay.

A hot sob rises in Al’s throat. He turns and runs before it can break.

* * *

Later that night, the soft creak of floorboards and the rustle of blankets alerts Al of Brother’s return. It’s not tension in the air, Al realizes now. It’s grief, an iron weight pressing heavily on their too-small shoulders, while the agony of loss bristles beneath their skin.

In the morning, Brother gently shakes him awake (Al hasn’t slept a wink, he can’t sleep, he can’t close his eyes for too long without thinking of the way Ed had his head bowed in defeat when Dad’s eyes dimmed). Exhaustion weights Al’s limbs and his eyes feel like they’re ready to fall out of his head, but he rolls over anyway. He’s met immediately by a pair of amber eyes that are so much like Dad’s that it startles him—until he notices that they are red and glossy from crying.

“Al.” Brother’s voice hits his ears like the tickle of a feather. His eyes are not sad, but instead dull, expressionless, hollow in a way that makes Al’s ribcage constrict painfully. “C’mon. Wake up.”

Fresh tears thicken Al’s throat. He blinks back wetness and sniffles.

“That’s enough crying.” A note of harshness tints Brother’s tone. His face isn’t carefully neutral, something maintained in order to distance outsiders—it’s had the life sucked out, leaving only emptiness and nothing to fill it. “You’re not a baby, Al.”

The image of Ed sobbing in the graveyard last night blazes in Al’s memory, shadows and light clashing in a painful contrast. He thinks it might be branded on the inside of his eyelids. “Brother—”

“It’s time for breakfast,” Brother goes on with an uncharacteristic listlessness. He turns away, gathering his blanket in his arms and beginning to fold it up. Each movement is stiff. Al winces upon remembering that Brother conceded the bed to him and himself slept on the cold hard floor. “And don’t say you’re not hungry. It doesn’t matter. You need to _eat_.”

It’s not fair. It’s not fair—Brother is in as much pain as Al is, maybe even more so (because Brother had to watch as Dad’s condition slowly deteriorated, as he grew sicker and sicker and he _knew_ what was happening—no wonder he was always making Al leave the house). Brother should be allowed to cry and scream and refuse to eat just like Al. But instead he has to look at Al with hollow eyes and has to keep his tears in and make Al eat because, because—

_“I’m the oldest, so I have to look out for Al and everything and I get that—but what am I supposed to **do**?”_

“Okay,” Al says quietly. Then, as an afterthought, he adds, his voice shaking, “I’m sorry.”

Brother looks up at him, utterly weary. “For what?”

_“I’m **scared** , Dad.”_

“Last night. W-When I said you didn’t c-care.” God. _God_. How could he be so awful? How could he _honestly_ think Brother wouldn’t care? “I’m s-sorry I said that. I s-shouldn’t have—”

“It’s fine,” Brother interrupts. He sets the folded blanket in the corner, moving a little hastily. “Just come down for breakfast, okay?”

He’s gone before Al can say anything else.

* * *

_“It’s gonna be okay. Promise.”_

“You idiot,” Al whispers.

* * *

_~1908_

Days turn to weeks and they settle back into the house. It is empty in places it shouldn’t be and colder than Al could have ever thought possible. The light that used to permeate the very air, bouncing off the walls, is gone so suddenly that he barely has the presence of mind to mourn its absence.

There is no longer any warm laughter, or wide grins, or strong hands ruffling their hair. All of that has been replaced by Brother waking up early to make breakfast, by Brother smiling in a hollow manner that makes his face look like it’s trying not to break, by Brother speaking in a slow, listless fashion. By bloodshot eyes from too little sleep and bags collecting beneath them, skinny shoulders from not eating enough and face growing pale from spending so long shut away from the outside world.

Their house is no longer a home, just a place where they live, where the life is being slowly sucked out of Brother until he’s just a ghost fluttering through the halls.

Al would scream, but he knows Brother won’t hear him.

“Hey Al?” Brother is stooped over the stove. He’s making stew—again. His knowledge of cooking is not particularly varied or plentiful enough, but Al hardly notices or cares anymore what’s put in front of him. Eating has lost its enjoyment. “Can you do me a favor and clean out the study?”

In surprise, Al looks up at him. They haven’t gone in the study since Dad died—two weeks ago? Has it really been so long?

He doesn’t want to, but—

_“I’m **scared**.”_

“Okay.”

“Thanks,” Brother says. Exhaustion has prematurely aged his face and eyes, made him look world-weary and ancient. He flashes a thin smile, but it’s merely a phantom of such, as though invisible strings are forcing the action.

Al runs up the stairs so Brother won’t see him shaking.

The study has been left largely untouched since Dad collapsed in it that first day. The door does not creak, though it feels like it ought to. Books and loose leaves of paper clutter the desk, with a haphazard smattering of pens, an inkwell set off to the side with a white feather capping it. The ink has probably dried, leaving the quill cemented inside. Half-melted candles form a disorganised ring around the disorder. A few papers have fluttered to the ground, likely knocked aside by the violence in which Dad fell. The chair is askew, having collapsed sideways against the floor. Precisely two pens have rolled their way across the floor, while a third has hidden itself beneath the desk. Crumpled papers fill the wastebasket to the bin. Rows of books lean against each other in the bookshelves to compensate for the vacancies. To the leftmost wall, the vintage suits of armor stand with a lifeless solemnity, weapons at the ready to defend from intruders of this altar of a dead scholar. He swears that the one with the swooping white feather atop its helmet is watching him.

When he clicks the lights on, they are slow to respond. They give a fitful flicker before settling to full strength, but the brightness feels like an offensive thing. Not enough time has passed for dust or cobwebs to gather, but Al feels like there should be. It should be derelict and dilapidated and falling apart at the seems. It shouldn’t look as though its master is about to return at any given moment.

Biting his lip, Al makes his way over to the desk. The floorboards don’t creak under his wake, but each step feels far too heavy. One book teeters off the edge of the desk. Al grabs it, and does so without having to reach on his tiptoes. When did that happen? He remembers a time when neither he or Brother could reach the desk without having to sit on Dad’s lap, listening to his warm baritone as he explained to them about history, alchemy, a foreign language and a long-lost alphabet.

_Who’s going to teach us Xerxean now?_

Worn leather against his hands. The book has a surprising heft to it. The bindings look old, and some pages jut out arbitrarily, as though a patchwork of different-sized papers.

On a whim, Al cracks the book open. Flips through the pages. It’s handwritten, a loopy scrawl that he vaguely recalls to be off-limits, though he can’t remember why. An array leaps out at him, and he stops.

Notes are crammed into the margins. Things are underlined. Crossed out. Scribbled over. Rewritten. Annotations and footnotes dot the page. But in the array in the center is a bullseye, lattice lines unfurling around gylphs he is unfamiliar with. The Xerxean script scrawled at the array’s edges say things like “heart” and “mind” and “soul”.

FLAWED, reads the caption beneath. IMPERFECT EQUATION.

It takes a moment to understand.

Al’s breath grows shallow. He flips forward exactly three pages before stopping. There is no array on these pages, but there are equations, theoretical talks of how to construct a human body. The author conflicts themselves repeatedly, seemingly debating back and forth between the morality of such a task. “Ultimate taboo” is tossed around. Dangerous. Never been done before.

_If a human being is composed of three elements—body, mind, and soul—do these elements necessarily have to be introduced to this world simultaneously? Is it possible that a body can first be created, then imbued with a mind, and then perhaps a soul? Could the soul perhaps be a foreign one? The soul of a person whose body has already been lost?_

This is human transmutation. Something every alchemist, from the moment they first crack open a beginner’s guide and learn to abide by Equivalent Exchange, knows is not to be attempted. If Al is smart, he will slam the book shut and burn it.

But he thinks back to Dad’s glassy eyes as he lay there, a body without a soul. He thinks of Brother’s hollow smile and fervent promises. He thinks of the house, cold and empty and missing a vital component.

Something dark and dangerous sparks in his mind, then.

Alphonse Hohenheim keeps reading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yellow fever statistics:
> 
> Yellow fever is caused mostly by bites from carrier mosquitoes. It is common in South American, Sahara-African, and Carribean areas. Since the FMA equivalent for these areas is never introduced, I decided to use Aerugo as the equivalent. Since Amestris overtakes Aerugian territory in its expansion campaigns, I placed yellow fever as a minor hazard that comes from traveling to the South of Amestris.
> 
> Yellow fever is preventable through vaccination. (However, since it is such a minor hazard in Amestris, most travelers in that area don’t bother or simply aren’t informed enough.) The virus incubates in the body for approximately three to six days before symptoms begin appearing.
> 
> The early stages of yellow fever are difficult to diagnose due to its similarities to other flaviviruses. The symptoms are:  
>  -fever  
>  -muscle pain or body aches (often in the back or knees)  
>  -chills  
>  -light sensitivity (uncommon)  
>  -nausea and vomiting  
>  -headache  
>  -dizziness  
>  -loss of appetite
> 
> These symptoms usually abate after three to four days. Only three-point-five percent of people die from this stage. Like chicken pox, once someone has gotten yellow fever and recovered from it, they are rewarded with a permanent immunity.
> 
> Usually, after those first few days, most patients recover. However, a day or two after the acute phase passes, an average fifteen percent of patients will enter what is known as a “toxic” stage. They will develop serious symptoms such as:  
>  -jaundice (yellowing of the skin and eyes)  
>  -bleeding from the eyes, nose, and mouth  
>  -hematemesis (bloody vomit)  
>  -delirium  
>  -abdominal pain  
>  -internal hemorrhaging into the stomach  
>  -liver or kidney failure  
>  -seizures  
>  -shock
> 
> An estimated fifty percent of patients who enter this stage die within seven to ten days.
> 
> \----
> 
> Now, the main reason I chose yellow fever as the illness is because it is noncontagious, fast-acting, and often a result of travel. It is also a potentially fatal disease that, initially, isn't very lethal. Also, it makes for a nice pun, considering Hohenheim's physical traits.
> 
> This and the last chapter were originally one chapter, but I realized, _Wow this is way too long to be one thing, I need to split this up_ , so here we are.
> 
> Also, sidenote: “khoresh bademjan” is a traditional Iranian stew involving beef or lamb, eggplant, and tomatoes. Iran is located where Persia used to be, and Xerxes is portrayed as a combination of Persia and Ancient Greece, so.
> 
> Once again, feel free to ask any questions! Sincerely yours,  
>  The Immortal Moon


	7. That Which Is Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yeah.” Ed is grinning. His heart has latched onto the idea and he knows, then, that it will never let go. “Let’s do it, Al.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canadians celebrate Thanksgiving on Oct 8, and I am Canadian, so here we are. Happy Canadian Thanksgiving, people!

“ _When you love someone, and you’ve lost that one, then nothing really matters._ ”  
—Agnetha Faltskog

 

_~1904_

Ed remembers his mother.

Not well, granted. Her face is blurred by acrimony and a vehemence with which to forget, to blot her out of his memory—but it persists, only crystallized by his desire to be rid of it.

He only remembers her by her absence, and the day it began. It starts with a blurry recollection of Al shaking him awake with the request to go potty, to which Ed ultimately agreed to guard the door, because it was impressed upon him very early on that he, as the elder brother, was meant to be responsible and something of an overseer. He had loathed it at first, the unfamiliar weight that was placed upon his shoulders, but he gradually grew to grudgingly accept it—besides, Al was alright, as far as little brothers went. Annoying, but tolerable, at times a decent playmate.

As they were returning to their room, Al dewy-eyed with sleep and rubbing one eye, Ed noticed his parents at the front hall. Dad had his hair pulled into a sloppy ponytail, clothes slightly disheveled and eyes bleary from sleep. Poised before the door itself was the woman who would’ve been his mother—a long dark coat draped her slight figure, her hair brushed smooth and her eyes bright with alertness. A woolen scarf hung unwrapped around her neck, a leather suitcase dangling from her hand. Ed remembered finding the sight to be an unusual one, because it was particularly early and the sun was only just rising in the distance, the predawn sky a pale dove-gray of winter slowly transitioning into early spring. He could not hear what they were saying, but there was something solemn in their posture and mannerisms that inspired a sense of unease in him.

At some point, they must have been noticed. They must have, because the next thing Ed knew, he was standing in front of their mother, Al at side, while she knelt down in front of him. He distinctly remembers the way her golden hair dripped over one shoulder like liquid honey.

“Boys,” the woman began, voice deceptively soft. “Mommy’s going away for a while. So you need to be good for Daddy, okay?”

“Okay,” they both chimed.

“And Ed, you look after your brother, yeah?”

He thought nothing of the request. It had grown simply too familiar, as had the tickle of annoyance that accompanied it. He only rolled his eyes and agreed.

Something in her eyes must have given Ed pause, because then he asked, “When are you coming back?”

That made her falter. Dad started to say something in a scolding tone, but she interrupted with a brisk “it’s fine”. And then all of a sudden her arms were around them, her cheek velvety soft against his, and he felt the warmth of her breath, the tickle of her eyelashes. She held on just a little longer than need be, and he remembers that it puzzled him.

“Soon,” she murmured. Her voice was muffled by his hair and clothes, but it was in his ear and he heard her. She pulled away little, eyeing them appraisingly. He cannot remember her face.

“Promise?” he asked. He held up his hand, and stuck out his pinky the way Winry showed him once.

Her own pinky hooked his. He thinks she might have smiled. “Promise.”

Then she got to her feet, turned away so that her back filled his vision. She and Dad kissed once on the mouth (he remembers that because his child-self thought it disgusting and feigned gagging), then, suitcase in hand, she walked out into the predawn light. His memory paints the motion much slower than it probably was, a gradual closing of the door and the light framing her silhouette so that it washed her in darkness—his last glimpse of her, and she looked no more like a shadow on the wall.

After she was gone, Dad sighed heavily and turned to them. Ed remembers that there was something inexplicably weary in his eyes.

“Go back to bed,” Dad said. They obeyed.

* * *

Trisha Elric never did return.

* * *

_~1905_

Ed does not relish in Trisha’s memory the way Al does. He holds no illusions about the circumstances of her departure and refuses to allow himself any second thoughts in regard to her. She is gone, plain and simple. She no longer has the right to be part of their life, or their past.

The present belongs to him. To him, and Dad, and Al, and alchemy. Yes, when he learned that Trisha once practiced the same craft as them, it left him bothered—but he’s decided to surpass her, if cannot altogether put her out of his mind.

He’s in the study one day, perusing at his own leisure, when he comes across a book that is sloppily bound together and lacks the same neatness of the other manuscripts. Curiosity has always been a sin of his, and before he can think better of it, he is leafing through the pages. The looping scrawl should clue him in that this is something he ought not to be reading, especially with his self-proclaimed boycott, but the material fascinates him too much. He’s never read anything like this, anything that dares touched upon this. What is—

Then it is snatched out of his hands. The noise of protest is cut off when met with Dad’s stern gaze.

“Dad.” Crud. Ed’s tongue feels stuck to the roof of his mouth. “I-I was just—”

“First Al, now you.” When Dad exhales, it is with weary exasperation, a not-quite sigh. He snaps the book closed. “Please stay out of your mother’s books, Ed.”

He only dully registers the part about the book being Trisha’s. Fascination blots out the acrimony the word “mother” usually elicits in him, favoring instead a potent curiosity. “What’s ‘human transmutation’?”

Dad pauses his task of setting the book back in the shelf. Though Ed can only see his profile, emotions fly across his face swift and deeply expressive. Shock, worry, unease, annoyance, hurt, hope(?). It finally settles on purse-lipped disapproving as his father turns back to him. “It’s the ultimate taboo.”

“Meaning...?”

“Human transmutation is transmuting the human body.” Dad leans away from the bookcase and appraises it, as though he’s not entirely sure it’s safe anymore.

“Like medical alchemy?” Ed read a book on that. Or, part of a book. Al seemed fonder of the idea than Ed was. Personally, he prefers anything focusing on metallurgy. There’s just something utterly fascinating about that.

Seemingly deeming the bookcase safe, Dad begins rearranging the books. “No. It’s... creating humans.”

Wait. You can _do_ that? Oh, that is so cool—

“But it’s forbidden,” Dad finishes gravely. “You must never attempt it.”

The curious mind in Ed is not placated with simple labels such as “taboo” and “forbidden”. And he is a child—children do not understand that there are some things beyond human reach. “Why?”

Seeing this, Dad sighs, for real this time. Bows his head a little and closes his eyes. He looks weary. Kind of old. Ed doesn’t really think of Dad as old, but he’s reached his thirties, and in the days of precivilization, people only lived up until then. “It’s dangerous.”

Ever the truth-seeker, Ed is undeterred. “Why?”

“Ed!” There is a beginning of a scold in the way Dad says his name, and Ed braces himself. But the next moment, Dad’s shoulders slump unexpectedly, as though he just can’t muster the energy. “It’s very dangerous, and very bad. Just promise me you won’t look into it any further, okay?”

“But Dad—”

“[Promise],” Dad says in Xerxean.

There is a stark difference between Dad and Trisha, Ed realizes in hindsight. Trisha kept no promises, made vows that were words and breath alone without anything behind them. But when Dad asks you to promise, when he makes a promise—he expects you to _keep_ it, no buts about it. There is no going back on your word or loopholes or anything like that. It is stone and willpower, more than words, something that rests heavily on your shoulders, something to be carved into the spaces of your heart. It is grave beyond words, a true mark of trust to be leveled with a steadfast vow. And Ed strives to be the same way, when he is older.

Reluctantly, he lets his shoulders slump in defeat. “Fine. I promise.” Then, as an afterthought, because he is still a little put out by the idea that his father is unwilling to teach him something, he adds, slightly snappish, “Is there anything _else_ I’m not allowed to look at?”

Dad must sense the sarcasm, because he makes to retort—but then the pauses, suddenly, a thoughtful look overcoming his face. A dark look quickly chases after it, the brief passing of a shadow, lips pursing and brows lowering. He leans down a little to grab Ed’s hand and begins guiding him out of the study.

“Yes,” Dad says. Ed can feel every callous of his father’s hand. “The Philosopher’s Stone. You must never look into it.”

The foreign words elicit a spark of curiosity. “What’s that?”

“Nothing you need to worry about. Promise, Ed.”

Now Dad’s just being dramatic. Ed rolls his eyes, and thinks nothing of the grave tone his father uses. “I promise.”

* * *

_~1908_

The day they visit the Rockbell house to find Winry with big, fat tears sliding down her flushed cheeks and Granny cursing the military under her breath is the day that Ed and Al run home and cling desperately to their father’s pantlegs. At first, he is amusedly bewildered by their actions, and tries to calm them down, but when they peer up at him with glossy eyes and genuine fear, he sobers, his smile becoming a stiff, faltering thing.

“What happened?” Dad asks seriously.

They tell him about the telegram Granny received, about the war, about Auntie and Uncle. Dad is very, very quiet.

Al sniffles loudly. “You’re not gonna leave too, are you?”

Dad looks stricken, his mouth flapping helplessly for a moment in silent horror. Immediately, he drops his knees and embraces them with strong, solid arms. His hold is crushingly tight, but Ed doesn’t mind. He buries his face in his father’s shirt and breathes in deep. Dad smells the way libraries do, the mustiness of old paper and dried ink and treated leather, plus the added spice of his cologne and the sharpness of laundry detergent.

Ed feels the rumble of Dad’s voice as he says, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Even though the word “promise” is never explicitly used, the weight of the vow is felt nonetheless.

He has no recollection of the funeral they held. He only remembers that afterwards, Dad’s eyes and mind wander farther into the distance. He remembers that Dad disappears during the day, gradually at first then more and more, only to return at night smelling strongly of something foul and collapses into sleep on the couch. Sighing to himself, Ed will sometimes stay up late waiting up for his father, or he’ll throw a blanket over the man’s prone form. He isn’t really sure what else to _do_. Parents are supposed to look after children, not the other way around, but Dad is hurting and you’re supposed to comfort someone when they’re upset.

“You’re the oldest” has always been repeated like a mantra. He is older than Al, so he has to protect him, at least so long as they are submerged in this pool of childhood youth, not quite ready to break the surface and peer at the adult world for all that it is. Responsibility is the air in which he breathes and the current he is forced to abide. This is just another undertow, something that drags him down and threatens to drown should he fight too hard, so he simply doesn’t. Instead, he finds himself growing progressively more conscious of the clock, waking up five minutes early to shake his father awake (and leaving pain medication out for the morning headaches) and feed the cats so they won’t meow so loudly and leave a little early so that he and Al will get to school on time. He makes lunches in the mornings and picks up things from the market and warns Dad about burning eggs, when Dad is feeling well enough to be attentive in the morning. When he isn’t, Ed makes toast or cereal and silently endures Al’s complaining.

And all the while he’ll try his damnedest not to worry too much. Dad has always been a scatterbrained individual, but now, between the frequent absences and bleariness in the morning and the way his wandering gaze seems to occupy him more and more, Ed finds himself genuinely afraid he’s losing his father. To what, he doesn’t know, but it still _scares_ him.

Thankfully, it never comes to that. At some point, Dad pulls himself together. Not as together as he was before, granted—the pieces are still scattered, but he binds them so that they are closer together, so that the still-there breakage is masked by his hodgepodge state of okay-ness. He ruffles Ed’s hair and says, “Thanks, champ. I’ve got it from here.”

“Good,” Ed huffs and refuses to let his relief show. Stupid dumbass father, making him worry. “I’m _never_ doin’ laundry again!”

Dad laughs out loud at that.

A few months later, Granny welcomes them back from their trip South with a smile that pinches her wrinkles and something wet in her velvety eyes. Concern and bewilderment immediately set upon Dad, and he is quick to inquire if something has happened, some tragedy that has befallen Risembool in the wake of the bombing at the train station (which has only just been repaired, there’s a massive crater that greeted them with the yawning mouth of a monster, Ed couldn’t stop staring).

But Granny only shakes her head as she ushers them inside with new vigor in her step. “It’s a miracle,” she says breathlessly, closing the door behind them.

Ed wants to ask, but then he catches movement in his peripheral. He turns, expecting Winry. Instead he meets the eyes of a ghost.

The suitcase slips out of Dad’s hand.

Uncle smiles weakly at them. His eyes are deeper than Ed remembers, sunken almost, and there are lines in his face that makes him look unwell. He’s pale and tired-looking and there’s something slightly nauseous in his smile, but it’s still _Uncle_. And Ed wants to run to the graveyard to make sure the coffin is still buried, even if it was empty when they buried it. He looks the epitome of exhaustion, looks like a corpse that suddenly dug itself out of the grave and started walking upright.

“Hey, Van.”

Silence lapses over the room, the air thick and sticky as glue. Al is leaning forward so hard Ed suspects he might fall over. From his vantage point, Ed can make out figures moving in the kitchen, and hears Auntie’s voice drifting over to them, light and melodious. It’s followed by a sharp, choppy laughter that sounds distinctly like Winry, which makes him balk because the last he heard Winry laugh it was before the telegram came, before the day he found her in ugly tears.

“I thought you were dead,” Dad says. There’s no accusation in his tone, nor is there relief. It’s a simple lack of comprehension, a numb, blank sort of confusion that makes the words a little too dull.

“Erm... Rumors of my death were greatly exaggerated.” Uncle says it like it’s supposed to be a joke, but it comes off rather flat.

“I went to your funeral,” Dad goes on in a daze. The spectacles perched on his nose catch the light in a certain way. Ed can’t see his eyes. “I paid for your headstone.”

Uncle’s smile grows a touch strained, then falters entirely. Ed is not entirely certain that his form is substantial. Part of him wonders if he reached out and tried to touch Uncle that his hand might go through his body.

Dad shakes his head and runs a hand over his face. He looks harried, frazzled, but not in a bad way. “I almost _cried_ , you asshole.”

“I—”

“The next time I attend your funeral, I’m strangling you.” The declaration resounds through the room, the walls vibrating as though given new life. Ed swears it’s as if a light has been turned on, as though the veil of drapes have been pulled away to let the sunbeams shine brighter. “Just to make sure!”

Bewilderment suffuses onto Uncle’s face, and he blinks dumbly at Dad as if he’d suddenly transitioned into Xerxean.

Then there is slow, soft laughter in the air. Ed and Al both turn to see Granny making her way over them, chuckling around the pipe jutting out from her lip. She claps the brothers both on the shoulders with a rough, calloused hand that feels far smaller than it should, but at the same time far too strong. Slowly but surely, the smile reignites on Uncle’s face, tentative, like the first few throwaway sparks of kindling when trying to start a fire. A similar smile blooms across Dad’s face, though his is touched more heavily with relief, and he gives a sigh like feathers drifting down to the floor.

Footsteps pitter-patter, and Ed turns in time for a blonde blur to crash into him, strong arms and a wet face. He yelps, sent tumbling to the floor. When he looks up, he is met by the juxtaposition of a smile that is wider than he has seen in months, Winry’s teeth white and her dimples rosy where they puncture her cheeks, and a fresh river of tears dripping from vividly blue eyes. It’s an alarming sight, something joyful mixed with something meant to convey sorrow. He has never seen someone cry while smiling.

“Can you believe it?” Winry cries out. She doesn’t bother to extricate herself from him. Instead, it’s Auntie who, having wandered over from the kitchen, has to gently separate them. “They came back! They _came back_!”

Al peers at Auntie without any restraint. She looks tired in the same way as Uncle, but her lips are upturned with serene joy, eyes sparkling with unshed tears that he immediately sees in correlation to Winry’s. Tangled, teased hair and shadows under her eyes, but the light hits her face in a way that makes it glow. Den bounds after her, all sloppy kisses and a tail wagging so hard that it _thwaps_ audibly. Ed scarcely has time to sit up before he is assaulted by the dog’s overwhelming joy.

“Sarah.” Dad’s voice is warm and thick. It must be Ed’s imagination, because there’s no possible way Dad’s eyes could have that same glistening quality as Winry’s, not when Winry is such a crybaby. Dad doesn’t cry. Right?

Managing to ward Den off, Ed looks around. Auntie is on her knees saying something quiet to Al, who is torn somewhere between disbelief and sheer, unaltered joy. Sweet-smelling smoke curls sinuously from Granny’s pipe as she holds it out, her mouth too busy grinning to puff tobacco. A minor squabble had broken out between Dad and Uncle, something about Dad’s glasses and how they make him look old, while Dad irritably reminds Uncle that they’re the same age, dammit. Winry flits about the room, unable to sit still or to cease grinning and constantly examining her parents from top to bottom as though she can’t get enough of the sight of them. Den stands over him, breathing hot, stinky dog breath all over him.

 _They were dead_ , Ed thinks dumbly, uncomprehendingly. _They were dead, but they came back. And everyone’s so happy..._

He grins.

* * *

_~1908_

Ed doesn’t think he will ever forget the day he finds Dad collapsed in the study, barely conscious and looking like death warmed over. Limbs sprawled gracelessly, spectacles abandoned, a pile of books tumbled to the ground, hair pooling around his head like his skull cracked open and bled golden ichor all over the floor. His body is wracked with shudders, so it’s hard to tell if he’s even breathing.

A chilling terror Ed has never known before suddenly grips his heart, entrenches itself into his mind. He isn’t sure he how long he lingers in the doorway, caught between running and rushing over to his father’s prone form to check for a pulse, the way Uncle taught him to.

It isn’t until Dad shifts and groans softly that Ed feels some of his fear defrost. He lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. Dad is alive. Dad is alive.

With agonized slowness, Dad raises his head, gaze meeting Ed’s. His amber eyes—proud, Xerxean eyes—are dull with a sort of slow, all-consuming misery, the kind that seeps into your bones and makes you weight ten times as much. Ed has never seen his father in such a sore, sorry state. It scares him all over again.

* * *

After Auntie helps Dad to his room, Ed lingers outside the door, ear pressed against the wooden surface to catch scraps of conversation and diagnoses. Auntie’s voice drifts like music. He catches “bed rest” and “symptoms should abate within a few days” and “for God’s _sake_ , you stubborn mule, take your medicine!”.

“What are the odds this is going to beat me?” Dad asks, because he is the practical sort. He likes to plan and prepare carefully, likes to know his odds and what he’s up against.

“Nearly nonexistent, if it is what I think it is.” There’s a tense pause, then, a thoughtful, “Unless you somehow fall into the three-point-five percent with poor immune systems. But again—that’s assuming it is yellow fever and not, say, malaria or dengue fever.”

“I’ve never known you to be wrong about a diagnosis,” he points out with a touch of humor.

“Flatterer,” she huffs, a touch warm. “Also, if it _is_ yellow fever, know that you’ll never get it again.”

Laughter echoes through the door. It’s not the rumbling laugh Ed is used to, the kind you can feel in your chest just from watching the other person guffaw with such gusto, but a a much weaker variant. Yet the mirth is still just as forceful. “Like chicken pox.”

“Exactly.”

Ed allows this to buoy him through the next few days. Responsibility had always been imparted to him one way or another, so he is content with bearing the extra weight for a little while. He teaches himself how to cook, even if his skills are not particularly the example of culinary expertise, and plays the part of nursemaid, even if it’s slightly degrading. Dad _is_ stubborn, painfully so, to the point where Ed finds himself having to metaphorically shove the pills down his throat. At some point, Ed finds himself feels genuinely wondering which of them is the adult, with the way his father grumbles and grouses like a petulant child at times. But it all pays off in the end, and Ed’s chest swells with pride and relief when Dad’s fever finally breaks.

“Uncle says you have to stay in bed a little longer,” Ed says. He forces his father to lie back down in bed, even if it earns him a grimace and a less-than-enthusiastic look. Ed is too relieved to care.

The next morning, he is brought up the stairs by Al’s panicked shouting. Ed surveys the damage, the blood on the tiles and the horrible noises Dad lets out as he heaves into the toilet, and panic rises in his throat. He hides it as best he can, for Al’s sake, and entreats him to get Uncle. Uncle will know what to do, surely.

He finds himself in the same position as a few days earlier, with his ear pressed against the door and his teeth worrying the inside of his cheek. Only, because the door is slightly ajar, he catches much more of it than he did last time—and the tone is far less optimistic.

“Definitely yellow fever,” Uncle says solemnly. “The toxic phase—approximately fifteen percent of patients go into it.”

“So I’ve rotten luck.” Dad’s voice is significantly more subdued than it was last time. He speaks through croaks and hoarse whispers, as though his voice is sandpaper scrapping stone inside his throat. “Tell me, this ‘toxic phase’. Is it bad?”

Uncle does not respond. Ed presses closer to the door, but grips the handle with one hand so that his weight won’t cause it to creak open and reveal him as an eavesdropper.

A ragged-sounding sigh that is distinctly Dad sounds. “It’s bad.”

“It’s not good.” Uncle is being purposefully evasive. The blood in Ed’s veins prickles and quickens with unease. “It’s...”

“How’s the morality rate?”

Ed’s grip on the handle grows so tight his hand feels numb.

Nervous shuffling. Through the slit of the open door, Ed catches a glimpse of Uncle’s back, of the tension in his shoulders. “...fifty-fifty, Van. It’s a literal coin toss.”

More silence fills the room. Ed’s stomach sinks lower and lower with each passing moment. Once it has reached his toes, Dad speaks again.

“How long do I have?” There’s no frustration or denial in his voice. Just tired resignation, a lingering groan of misery that threads its way through the words, like string through the eye of a sewing needle.

“Van...”

“How long?” Dad croaks.

Breath halts in Ed’s lungs. His heart doesn’t get the message and beats even faster.

There is a sigh, this one resigned and ringing with finality. It’s Uncle. “Somewhere between ten and seven days. That’s... That’s how long it usually takes.”

His lungs fill with ice and his chest cavity fills with iron. His heart doesn’t dare beat. Thought evaporates. He has to let go of the handle and back away from the door before his own weight collapses on him, throws the door open and sends him tumbling into the room.

Through the open slit, he catches the smell of blood and vomit and sickness. He thinks he’s going to throw up.

 _Dad can’t die._ The thought spins wildly through his vacant skull, like a top set in motion but not allowed to falter. His feet move on his own accord, take him stumbling down the stairs. _Dad can’t die, Dad can’t die, Dad can’t die._

The railing leans against him, or maybe it’s the other way around. He doesn’t know. He’s numb all over. The recently-ended Ishval War could start up again in a flurry of gunshots and explosions and people writhing in death throes on the streets and it wouldn’t make a difference.

“Brother?” Al’s voice makes his head snap up. It’s a tremulous thing, Al’s voice, and it comes from a child that’s sitting on the couch with his hands fisting the cushions as though it will keep him anchored to this reality, as though he’s expecting gravity to fluctuate and needs something to keep him from floating away. Winry sits next to him, Ruby between them, and her hand rests on the cat’s mottled brown head like a paperweight. “Is everything okay?”

No. Nothing is okay. There is a good chance that Dad is going to die, a fifty-fifty chance, a mere coin toss that has their father’s life in the air and when the penny drops, Ed doesn’t know which side means death. They have no mother—at least, no mother who wants them or cares enough to write or even feign an interesting in raising them—and they are about to lose the only family they have.

But Al’s eyes gaze up at him, liquid amber, quivering with a deep-seated concern that has not yet evolved into fear and horror and utter helplessness. Winry looks at him the same way, with trembling eyes filled with worry for someone she loves like an uncle, like family, even when she has her own that she’s just gotten back.

Ed wants to scream.

He smiles instead.

“Dad’s gonna be fine.” Ruby’s fur is soft under his fingers. He does not remember coming over to her, but he can feel her lazily half-lidded, yellow-green eyes burning into his. “He just got sick again ‘cause he didn’t take enough medicine. The dumbass.”

Responsibility has infiltrated the very lining of his lung tissue. He breathes in, breathes out. It won’t happen. Dad is not going to die. It’s a coin flip, fifty-fifty. A perfectly balanced scale.

But he can tip it. He _will_ tip it.

His belly clenches with resolve, his guts calcify into a diamond-hard substance. Dad is not going to die. Not if he can help it.

* * *

He keeps Al out of the house so he won’t see how Dad is getting worse. The room smells of blood almost constantly now, so if Ed is not cooking or forcing Dad to take medicine, he is scrubbing the crimson out of the sheets. He is only marginally successful—everything ends up with large pink patches across it.

As the week progresses, Ed finds himself growing quickly familiar with the smell and sight of blood, to the point where he almost expects to find crimson splatters across sheets and leaking from Dad’s nose. There is abdominal pain that leaves his father writhing and gasping in bed, with Ed helpless to do anything but wipe the sweat from his brow, and he inures himself to it for the sake of functionality. After a few days, a new, yellowish hue bleeds into Dad’s complexion (Dad’s complexion is a little lighter than theirs, more peach than honey. “Genetic dilution,” he always says, sticking his tongue out and feigning distaste), giving credence to the name “yellow fever”. It’s called jaundice, Ed will learn later when he inquires about it Uncle in a mild stir of panic when the coloration does not abate, and it’s a sign of liver failure.

“Is that bad?” Ed asks, serious and weary to his bones. Uncle only answers with thinned lips and averted eyes. Which means yes, it is bad.

On the third day, Uncle starts coming with a lawyer. They go up to Dad’s room and refuse to let Ed in. He listens at the door and hears talks of drawing up a will. Power of attorney. Funeral arrangements.

Ed stops listening at the door.

The lawyer stops coming after the sixth day. It means absolutely nothing.

Somewhere between the fourth and fifth day, Dad begins talking himself. His voice reaches high, broken crescendos that echo through the halls, climbing to great, dizzying heights before abruptly plummeting into awful silences that almost make Ed wish for more noise. It is then that Ed, trembling with nauseated horror and his eyes threatening to spill, is glad that he has been keeping Al out of the house. Al does not need to hear the broken sobs, the pleas for Trisha to return, the stuttered apologies and the cries of forgiveness.

“I’m sorry, Trisha.” Dad gasps hard, clasping Ed’s hand in his vice-like grip. Ed winces, but does not pull away, trying gently to remind Dad who is, where they are, Trisha is gone but it’s okay. “I’m sorry. I said I could do it, but I couldn’t. God, I couldn’t. The boys— they _need_ you— _please_.”

Ed squeezes back. There has always been a ghost in these halls, always been an absence he has dully felt, but now there is a sharpness to it, something like pricking your finger on a shard of glass. “You don’t need her, Dad. She doesn’t care. But—I’m here. Me and Al. Uncle and Auntie. Granny. Winry. _We’re_ here.”

“Trisha.” Dad doesn’t hear him at all. There is heartbreak in his voice, in every line of his face. “I’m sorry. God, I’m _sorry_.”

“Don’t _apologize_!” Ed snaps. What had Trisha _done_ to him, dammit? What had she done to leave his father in so much pain and anguish and grief, even when he has much more important things to worry about? “It’s not your fault she was a careless bitch!”

A watery smile splits Dad’s face. His eyes, tinted yellow from jaundice and fixed intently on the cracks in the wall, are fogged so thoroughly that Ed can’t read the emotions flickering through them. He only knows that Dad doesn’t recognize him at all. “Sorry... I’m going first, aren’t I?”

“ _No_.” He manages to extricate himself from his father’s grip and clasps both hands around Dad’s shoulder. He tries to smile but he can’t quite remember how. “You’re _not_.”

Because Dad’s going to take his damn medicine and _get better_.

(but he doesn’t)

 _You promised_ , Ed wants to hiss when Dad recovers his lucidity for a while, _that you would never leave us. You liar!_

But that’s not true. That’s not fair. Dad never uttered the word “promise” to them, never sealed the vow. He only reassured them when the fear of losing loved ones was real and present, as any good parent would.

He swears the eyes of the cats follow him everywhere he moves. There are times when he just wants to be alone, but he can’t because Socks or Felicia or Suzie will be there, staring at him with hauntingly unfaltering eyes. He used to think the cats as lovely, precious things that purr in his lap and allow him to pet them until he finds comfort in the softness of their fur. Now they are these wraiths that follow him in every room, with those wide staring eyes and faces that betray nothing—yet at the same time, he swears every twitch of the whisker or ear or tail-tip is an accusation of some kind. Ed tries not to pay them any mind.

Al is stricken when Ed demands that they be rehomed, but the simple fact is that their father takes priority over a few measly strays (Ed still remembers finding Socks on the doorstep in the middle of a raging storm, but it feels like that happened to a different person, a different lifetime). The fact that they are gone the next morning means that Al agrees. He hears later from a neighbor that Al and Winry went door-to-door, asking if anyone would be willing to taken a few domesticated cats or adopt some prized mouse-catchers. Ed can only find relief in this news, because it means that Al is not in the house, not there to see Dad in his fits of delirium.

After the sixth night, Ed abandons his room in favor of his father’s. He keeps a vigilant eye for signs of vomit or pain or blood. Sometimes Dad murmurs in his sleep, sometimes talking to Trisha, or his long-dead parents, or Uncle or Auntie or Granny. There are apologies to him and Al and Winry. Ed finds himself losing more sleep than he gains.

* * *

_~1908_

On the day that Dad finally passes, Ed doesn’t feel sorrow. There’s no room for sorrow when there is only emptiness, when there is only biting cold and a dull, numbed sensation flowering beneath his skin that might be pain, if he had the presence of mind to give it name. But he doesn’t, because he is standing before a body that once belonged to someone so full of life and warmth that it filled the entire house, with a brilliant mind that stretched leaps and bounds into the cosmos—and now only a vacant shell remains.

The corpse’s eyes are blank. They seem as though they could have been fashioned from glass instead of flesh and blood. Ed blinks dumbly, trying to forge some connection between his father and this husk.

Dad—went so _suddenly_. It was like blowing out a candle, or a stiff breeze raking across your face. There one second, then you blink and it’s gone, so swiftly that you barely have the presence of mind to acknowledge that it was even there in the first place.

Al starts to cry. Fear and confusion and anguish warp his face into an inhuman mask. It’s horrible, undignified, slightly repulsive. The sight of it makes Ed shudder minutely, and he thinks to himself that Dad would be horrified if he were to see either of them in such a state.

_“Look aft’ eesh other.”_

_(Look after each other)_

Uncle has to carry Al out when he starts to grow hysteric. Ed bows in his head, biting the inside of cheek hard so he won’t sob. What he feels is not remotely close to sorrow. The bitter sting in his mouth, faintly reminiscent of blood and bile, is much more akin to failure.

* * *

An hour later, someone comes to carry Dad’s body away. Logically, Ed should be able to recognize their faces, because he has known these people all his life, and yet everything but the limp form that was once his father seems irrelevant. He peeks through the partially open doorway of the study, where he has taken refuge, to watch as Dad’s cloth-bound form is ferried down the hall, down the stairs, out the door.

At this point, Winry has been ushered back home under Granny’s watchful eye, grieving privately for family that isn’t even her own. She’s always been a crybaby, really. Right now, Al is probably curled up in their bedroom, cocooned in sheets and weeping quietly. Ed peers through the study doorway and watches.

It seems all he can ever do right is watch.

* * *

Al locks himself in their room for two days and doesn’t sleep a wink. He cries and cries and cries so hard that it rattles the walls. It goes late into the night, bleeds into the shadows until it sounds as though the house itself is the one crying, as though the darkness has come alive just to mourn their father’s death.

Ed doesn’t cry. He won’t let himself. Dad would be appalled if he did, he knows, so he refuses to sully his father’s memory with useless tears.

Besides, the sheets of his bed are too far away from Dad to be of any use to him. He curls up in the study (he’s always felt safest in the study, always felt like it was part of their family in a way no other room ever was) and breathes in the thickness of the air. Books surround him on all sides, with dark spines that stare and the fragrance of paper and the mustiness of leather, the sharpness of ink not yet written. His mattress is equations, the arrays and glyphs he runs through late into the night to soothe his restless mind when it lingers too long on the house’s conspicuous absence. He makes a blanket for himself out of candlelight, catching the flicker of warmth and shadows on the walls, wondering if these are the sights his father witnessed when he read late at night. The only pillow is his thoughts and the cold floorboards beneath his head and the stale, lingering scent of Dad’s cologne in the air.

He sleeps in the center of the room, curled up amongst discarded alchemy notes he can’t bring himself to read, and stares lamentingly at the suits of armor in the corner. The metal stares back, a pitiful reflection, a little boy with eyes too deeply sunk into his skull that looks more like a wraith than a person.

Down the hall, Al wails for a father that will never return.

 _I won’t be like that_ , Ed vows, as the wraith-child’s hands curl into tiny fists and that phantom face hardens with determination. _I can’t afford to. I’ve gotta be **strong**._

The day of the funeral, Ed tries not to listen to the words. He has heard it all before. Gossipers have long-since chattered about how Dad had such a bright, promising future as an alchemist, but he gave it all up to be a father to two bastard children born to a woman he wasn’t even married to. Then the harlot left, abandoned the family for her own capricious whims. Dad has always been a subject of admiration and sympathy for the town, because only a truly good man would give up his life for the children of some common whore.

Really, the only difference is that, now, the gossipers lace their words with remorse. They lament how bright a star like his father burned out. They don’t speak ill of Trisha, per se, but there is venom lingering on the tips of their tongues, waiting to be loosed and only held back by whatever respect they had for Van Hohenheim. Ed can see it.

And he feels it, himself, the vitriol burning the back of his throat, so heavily laced with grief that he cannot unravel them. Their bitch of a mother deserves all of it. She didn’t come for the funeral, isn’t here when they need her most. Dad died thinking she would come back. _Waiting_ for her.

He watches dirt fly as the coffin is covered. He refuses to look away. To do so feels like it would be a disservice.

* * *

Al screams at him, and maybe he deserves it. He lied about Dad’s condition, left false hope in Al’s mind as a light, but it only cast deeper shadows. Ed is the one ultimately responsible for the depths of his own brother’s grief and terror, though at the same time he finds it in him to cast blame to his dumbass father, who allowed sickness to take him so early.

He goes to the graveyard with the intent to rebuke their father for his carelessness, for his refusal to allow Ed to make him better. If Dad had allowed Ed to help him more. If he hadn’t been so stubborn, so _fatalistic_ —

If—

If only—

Two days after his father’s death, Edward Hohenheim breaks into ugly tears. He has never felt more pathetic.

* * *

_~1908_

A new kind of normalcy seizes them before Ed can even understand it. He cooks and cleans and does all the work of an adult, because he is the oldest and now the authority figure of their family (or, at least, the tattered remains of it). Al seems more tentative and cautious around him, as though the floor is eggshell and each word is a step in the wrong direction. It hurts, but he figures Al just needs time. They all do.

After two weeks, though, Al suddenly becomes very withdrawn. Ed worries, but he doesn’t push. After all that has happened, it makes sense that his little brother is only in need of space.

The day that Ed sees the change (which he only recognizes in hindsight) is the day that Winry comes over with one of their alchemy books tucked under her arm. She looks at him with wide eyes that glisten like sapphires, and he remembers that she had cried at funeral, silently, as opposed to Al’s loud sobbing. It was as though she was afraid of her own grief, or she thought others might be put off by it.

“Hey,” he says blankly. Granny has come by a few times, as have Auntie and Uncle. But not her. Never her. And never alone.

“Hi.” She takes the alchemy book and holds it out with both hands, as though its weight is foreign to her. “Al left this at my house.”

Tentatively, he takes it and peers at the cover. It’s the beginner’s guide, the one he and Al first began reading when their father found them in the study that day. Has it really been four years since then?

“When did you...?”

“Al’s been teaching me a little.” She folds her arms behind her body and shifts nervously from foot to foot. “It’s fun, but, um, kind of tricky? I tried to read a little on my own, but it was _hard_. I didn’t understand a word!”

He snorts at that, remembering the first time he read it, remembers the long, winding sentences and the needlessly flowery language. Purple prose is for literature, not a textbook. “Yeah. The author’s an idiot. You gotta translate it into layman’s.”

This elicits a little laugh. He can’t tell if it’s genuine amusement or a relief of nervous energy. “Yeah. Al said that too.”

“That the author’s an idiot?” He can’t imagine Al saying anything like that. Al’s too nice. He never insults anybody unless they really, really deserve it.

A smile twitches across her face. For some reason, he finds himself almost smiling back. “Not _quite_ that.”

The book doesn’t feel heavy at all. Ed remembers, when he was five and his hands were grubbier, pudgier than they are now, that the thickness of it had been intimidating, because he had only before ever read picture books that taxed his patience with their sheer idiocy. He looked at the pages and saw a challenge, and upon reading discovered a passion that ignited somewhere deep and secret inside him. If he closes his eyes, he thinks he can almost remember...

“Hey Winry?”

“Yeah?”

“Do... Do you still need a teacher?” The words feel not-quite right on his mouth, unwieldy and foreign, like the first time he spoke Xerxean and the sounds fumbled too-heavy over his tongue.

She perks up a little at that. Not quite cautious, but thoughtful, intrigued. “Maybe,” she says. It sounds like a request. “It’d definitely give me something to do other than basic math. Our math class is so _boring_ , Ed!”

As if a switch has been turned on, he remembers sitting in math class, reading Xerxean language books under the table with Al. He remembers doodling lattices when no one was watching or slipping out of class to practice alchemy, because man, was it ever boring! Winry fell asleep half a dozen times and Ed could never concentrate on such simple equations, not when he had felt the universe at his fingertips, not when he was contemplating how to deconstruct and reshape the world around him. Those equations on the board were barebones. No true key to understanding the world and its molecular makeup, merely the barest form of mathematical existence.

_Something other than the barest existence..._

A smile cracks across his face. “It is, isn’t it?”

* * *

Teaching Winry brings new vigor into his life. When he opens the books and breathes in the fragrance of aged parchment, it is with the nostalgic familiarity of greeting an old friend after years of absence. Your roots are the same, but life took you both in different directions, so you’ve changed subtly, even if your fundamental nature hasn’t.

Alchemy is like that. He’d forgotten, almost, the ecstasy of it. The elegance, the simplicity hidden behind complexity, the beauty that it could become in the right hands.

Winry is a surprisingly receptive learner, which he thinks in part may be because Al taught her some of the basics. He also thinks that she, like him, has a mind for maths and calculations, though hers is about dimensions and measurements where his lies in the specialty of chemical reactions. Because of this, there is a difference in the way they think—their minds clash like swords, the steel of them grating against each other so violently that sparks are sent showering in molten gold. He will be the first to admit that he is not the most patient teacher, but nor is she the most patient student. At times he forgets that she has not, like him, studied alchemy for three years and knows all the jargon and terminology like she might name her own fingers and toes, so she will grow frustrated and impatient with him if he allows it to get away from him, swept up in the passionate throes of science.

But she finds her own quiet, smoldering intrigue in the circles and arrays. It’s not quite comparable to the deep burn of his own passion, yet he finds kinship in it. So they work, pour over books and pages of equations, slowly finding synergy in one another until they can speak the same tongue without getting lost in translation.

(sometimes he almost forgets, then, about the breakage in his chest, the gaping wound which there is no filling, even if alchemy can cauterize it for a while)

One day, when they are sprawled in the living room, on their stomachs and encircled by notes, the sound of footsteps makes Ed look up. His gaze pins Al halfway down the stairs, meets bewildered eyes.

“What are you doing?” Al asks, blinking. He stares unabashedly at the notes, then at them, like he can’t quite connect the two.

Winry sits up languidly, rolling her shoulders to alleviate stiffness. “Resuming lessons. Ed’s better at layman’s, but he sucks at pacing.”

“Hey!” he yelps without being actually offended. His neck feels sore from craning it over the books. He twists it from side to side. “Not _my_ fault you’re slow!”

She sends him a smile that is mildly threatening. It chills him a little, so he looks away tactfully.

Al stumbles the rest of the way down the steps and paces the edge of their little circle. “You got to the second volume?”

“Yup!” Winry gathers up a few loose leaves of paper and bundles them together. “Don’t suppose you wanna join us tomorrow?”

A conflicted look crosses Al’s face, and Ed’s brow furrows a little. Come to think of it, he hasn’t seen much of Al over the last few days, which in itself is unusual. He’s been bringing dinner to Al’s room, knocking on the door with the words “light’s out” on his lips—he’s been patient, of course, because it’s grief and pain and a loss that neither of them quite knows how to grapple with. But that does not change the fact the reclusive nature is odd, a mark of some suspicion that Ed cannot yet name.

“Maybe.” Even as Al says it, Ed gets the distinct impression that the only reason that the answer is not an outright “no” is his little brother’s sense of common courtesy. “Erm. It’s getting kind of late, isn’t it?”

Blinking, Ed peers up at the clock. To his embarrassment, he finds that the hour hand has wound further than he expected, that the light pouring through the window has deepened and grown plum-colored from the sun sinking low. It’s evening, now, and dinner should be on. Somehow, he’d completely lost track of time.

With a start, Winry leaps to her feet. She rattles something off about being late and gathers up her notes, then darts off after bidding them a hasty farewell. The door slams closed in the wake of her whirlwind.

As Ed gets to his feet, the stiffness nearly threatens to overwhelm him. There are bruises on his elbows where they rested on the hardwood floor for too long, and there are cramps in his shoulders from holding them in the same position. “Guess I should get dinner on.”

“We could go over to Granny’s,” Al suggests mildly.

“Nah. I can cook.” They’ve been going to Granny’s quite a bit since he started teaching Winry, forgetting his own responsibilities. Ed has started to feel like he’s shirking them a bit, and that won’t do. He scoops up the remainder of the materials and moves to the kitchen, setting the books on the counter. His memory doesn’t impart to him how much food is left, but he hopes it’s enough for tonight.

“Can I help?” Al offers timidly. He shuffles around the floor like he doesn’t quite trust it, like he half-expects it to crumble beneath his feet.

Well, he can’t find fault in wanting to be useful. Ed shrugs as he rummages around the refrigerator. There’s some lamb chops, but no vegetables as far as he can see. How embarrassing. “Sure. Grab me the pan?”

Footsteps shuffle past. The sound of cookware clicks and clatters against itself as Al fumbles around. Ed sets the lamb on the counter. He can’t remember what else is in the house and makes a mental note to go out for groceries tomorrow. But he thinks he saw some cheese in the fridge... Does cheese go well with lamb?

“Say, Al?”

“Mm?”

“What do you do up there all day, anyway?”

A clatter resounds through the air. Ed turns to see pots and pans tumbling onto the ground in a metallic cacophony. Al has pulled out the pan (the wrong) one, and stands there frozen, eyes wide and staring at the unfolding bedlam as though ready to bolt any minute.

“Al!” That was just careless! With an exasperated sigh, Ed begins scooping up the discarded cookware.

“Nothing,” Al says, suddenly finding his voice.

Ed pauses, one hand hovering over the handle of a pot. “What?”

“Nothing.” Al speaks far too quickly, the syllables broken and chopped up like they don’t quite fit together. “I’m not—working—anything. Nothing.”

...because that’s  _definitely_ not suspicious.

But dinner needs to be cooked, so Ed decides to put it off for now. He knows Al better than anyone (not discounting the vast canyon of grieving that’s opened up between them). Whatever it is that’s going on with Al, he’ll figure it out.

* * *

The next day, he catches Al slipping into the study. A frown pinches his features, and he wonders absently if this is where Al has been disappearing to for the last week or so. Ed can’t say that he doesn’t sympathize, because he still remembers when he slept in the study just to feel closer to Dad. It is the center of their home, in a strange way. Everything having to do with learning and alchemy and most of their good memories are somehow linked to that room.

With the utmost care, he surreptitiously pokes his head through the doorframe. To his surprise, he finds Al pouring over research notes of his own—books are half-opened and thrown about across the floor in a disorganized fashion that has Al’s eyes darting all around, as though he can’t quite decide where to occupy his attention at any given time. Loose-leaf sheets of parchment collide into each other, pile and stack without any sort of rhyme or reason. Ed sees arrays and symbols, though he is too far away to discern them properly. Still, there are so many, such a vast amount of text and pages that the floor is nearly blanketed in papers. It’s enough to make Ed’s head spin.

Then he notices the book directly in front of Al, the slipshod bindings and pages that stick out precariously. There’s something vaguely familiar about it...

“Al?” At the sound Ed’s voice, Al jolts like he’s been shocked, the lunges forward to drape his arms and body over as many pages as he can reach. Ed’s brows rise. Okay. That’s _definitely_ suspicious. “What’re you readin’?”

“Nothing,” Al says sharply, before Ed can even finish speaking.

Like Ed is going to believe that when Al is all but clutching the pages to his chest. He rolls his eyes and strides over. Al tenses up, eyes widening, which sets off yet another wave of red flags. “Right, and all these books are just open on their own.”

“I—” Al struggles for an excuse, but evidently finds none and clams up again.

“Must be interesting,” Ed remarks. He peers down at the page nearest to his foot, but Al is quick to snatch it away before he can properly read it. “What! I can’t see?”

“It’s—private.” The excuse is a lame one, even to Al, and from his wince, he evidently recognizes it as such.

“Private, huh?” With an incredulous _hmph_ , Ed drops to his knees and reaches for the book beneath Al’s arms. Al presses down harder on the pages. “You’re gonna crinkle the pages, Al. Then they’ll be ruined.”

A conflicted expression flashes across Al’s face. He looks down uncertainly at the pages, as though to confirm that he is, in fact, crinkling them. With this distraction taking priority over his attention, Ed take the opportunity to latch onto the book and wrench it free from Al’s grip. Al lets out a sharp cry of dismay and the pages bent as a result, but Ed is quick to smooth them out.

“Brother! Give it back!” Al’s hands grab and reach and he nearly bowels Ed over in his attempts to retrieve the book. The unfortunate part is that Al is a tad beefier, but Ed is slender and fast and he manages to dance out of Al’s reach. “Brother!”

A memory springs up within Ed—a remnant of when they were carefree and where constantly ragging on each other, when they fought and wrestled and bickered the way siblings do, all of it irritation and annoyance laced by an intrinsic camaraderie. If he doesn’t think too deeply about the rawness of Al’s tone, he can almost pretend that they are just teasing each other, the way they always have.

“Must be real important!” Ed finds himself laughing. He clutches the book to his chest and sweeps his leg out. With a yelp, Al trips, falls to the ground, and Ed runs out of the study, into the relative safety of the hall. He flies down the stairs and finally plops himself on the couch.

The pages leer up at him. There are crinkles from Al’s rough treatment, and sharp folds where Ed’s grip was a little too tight. With a huff, Ed begins the arduous process of smoothing the paper out.

It is only then he begins to take a closer look at the material. The writing is vaguely familiar, and the script around the array on the left page is particularly striking. Between the symbols and the pattern of the lattice, an unsightly understanding tickles the back of his skull.

_Is this...?_

Frantic footsteps pitter-patter their way over to him. Ed looks up and meet the harsh light of genuine fear shining in Al’s eyes.

Dad’s warning flutters through Ed’s mind like moths attracted to lantern light. “Al... tell you know what this is.”

Al winces.

“This is human transmutation,” Ed says. The weight of the book presses heavily against his lap, as though the pages have changed from flimsy paper to thick, heavy sheets of metal.

“...I know.” Al’s voice is small.

“Dad said not to look at this. Why are you looking at this?”

Something like shame suffuses across Al’s face. He averts his gaze to the kitchen, looking anywhere but Ed.

Carefully, Ed sets the book aside. He keeps the pages open, for some reason, allows the ceiling to stare at the inscription and the inscription to stare at the ceiling. “ _Tell_ me.”

“I...”

Ed waits, his heart beating strangely loud. Al’s hands clench into fists.

“I thought... that maybe...” Al’s face clenches with anxiety. Ed continues to wait. “T-That we could bring Dad back—”

Everything stops.

“...what?” A heady sensation rushes up to fill his skull. The world tips on its axis, blurs and spins. He breathes in, breathes out, but at the same time doesn’t breathe at all.

_Bring Dad back._

Is it even possible?

“The book speculates that you can create a body, and then imbue it with a soul,” Al goes on. He’s talking so fast that the words bump into each other, like he’s trying to get as many in as he can before Ed can stop him. “Some of it talks about the creation of this thing called a ‘homunculus’, but if we can adjust the formula correctly—”

The cushions beneath Ed no longer feel solid. He leans back against the back of the couch, touching a hand to his temple to make sure his head isn’t physically spinning. Thoughts whirl inside his skull, a flurry of emerging theories and equations. Composition of the human body. Number of cells, proteins, biological processes. Bringing Dad back. Bringing Dad back.

Bringing Dad back.

Suddenly, he is transported back almost a month or so, to the Rockbell house when Auntie and Uncle emerged as though they’d crawled out of death’s embrace, just to hug their family one last time. There was tears and laughter and grinning, and unabashed joy. Auntie and Uncle had all but come back from the dead, in a way.

So why couldn’t Dad?

“And I _know_ it’s forbidden and I _know_ it’s the ultimate taboo, but—”

“Taboo,” Ed repeats, carefully. The word tastes strangely on his tongue. “That’s a funny word, isn’t it Al?”

“Brother—”

“Who gets to decide?” To this, Al blinks, and his eyes widen. Ed ignores him, keeps talking, because it feels like a spark just lit in his belly. A spark that flashes light through all the dark parts of him, burns away the aching and the shadows and everything that has been weighing him down. “Who gets to decide what’s taboo or not? I bet—I bet it’s only labelled that ‘cause no one could ever do it right. Because they all failed, and they were too proud to admit that. So they labelled it forbidden, so no one would know how spectacularly they failed.” Ed peers down at the pages, at the dry text and the lightly-sketched illustrations and the annotations made by a parent who vanished long ago. A dark thrill of excitement goes through him. “But we won’t.”

Tentative excitement blooms on Al’s face. “Are you saying—”

“Yeah.” Ed is grinning. His heart has latched onto the idea and he knows, then, that it will never let go. “Let’s do it, Al.”

* * *

They abandon school entirely to pursue their theory. Auntie is less than thrilled by this, and makes her opinion quite known, as worried but nosy neighbors often do.

“You can’t just _not_ go to school,” she scolds them one Monday morning when they come over to inquire about borrowing some anatomy books. Personal studies, they say, but she is more interested in the fact that they are not attending the schoolhouse like Winry is. She fills the doorframe in the way only a scolding parent can, even if they are not her children. “It’s irresponsible!”

Al tilts his head inquiringly to one side. He’s young and doesn’t have the same penchant for scowling that Ed does, so he can pass for innocent. It does wonders. “But Auntie! School is just so _boring_. What’s the point of going to school if we already _know_ everything?”

She, however, is not swayed so easily ( _Dad would be_ , Ed thinks to himself lamentingly). “Really? You know _everything_?”

“Yep.” Den has collapsed on the porch next to where Ed stands. Ed takes the opportunity to scratch her ear affectionately. “We even corrected the math teacher a few times!”

A look of lidded exasperation overtakes her features. He’s sure Granny has filled her in on exactly how disrespectful he, Al, and Winry have been towards their math teacher. “Fine. You know math—and science, evidently. What about Language? Literature and grammar and such?”

“We know all about reading and grammar,” Al protests.

“And we known Xerxean,” Ed points out smugly. Their ancestor’s tongue is practically second nature to them now. And to prove his point, he adds, “[You can’t learn _that_ in school, can you?]”

She looks actually lost now, fully aware that she is not winning this argument, and it seems to frustrate her. Most adults, Ed finds, do not like being outsmarted by children whose ages don’t reach double-digits. “Okay. _History_. Where are you going to learn history?”

With an eerie synchrony, the brothers exchange a look of near identical befuddlement. Then, as one, they turn back to Auntie and chirp, “Books.”

“You can’t learn everything from _books_!” Auntie exclaims, throwing her hands up. Absently, Ed notes that Winry does the same thing when she’s exasperated. “You need—social interaction!”

And Ed can only stare at her blankly, wondering what the hell “social interaction” has to do with anything. Al tilts his head to the side again, this time in genuine curiosity.

Uncle, who has been observing the whole exchange from where he sits at the dining table with a cup of coffee in one hand and the morning paper in the other, lets out a sigh of defeat. “Just give it up, Sarah. They take after their father too much.”

The groan Auntie gives signals her concession. She turns heel, then retreats into the house in search of the books they requested. When she returns, they thank her graciously, and she only eyes them with an exhausted sort of chagrin, the kind that comes from being forced to concede to someone significantly younger and foolhardier than you. They ignore it in favor of achieving the next level in their research.

They still teach Winry, because she is still their friend and they have an obligation to her. It’s a mild inconvenience, if Ed is being honest, but it isn’t as though he doesn’t enjoy it. With Al there to add to the discussion, they reach a natural sort of balance. If Al overexplains, Ed simplifies. If Ed gets away from himself, Al steers him back to the subject. Winry silently absorbs it all with appropriate gusto. They spend their afternoons lazily doodling transmutation circles, transfixed by the sheer, simplistic bliss of it.

“So does that mean you’re done studying automail?” Granny teases one balmy autumn day, when the trees blaze against the windowpanes and the sky dims in favor of their floridity.

Incredulity flares across Winry’s face, and she looks up with eyes that nearly bug out of her skull. “What? No! I still wanna study automail! This is just a _hobby_.”

“Hobby?” Ed repeats, blinking. He’s never heard of alchemy being a “hobby”. Alchemy is something you devote yourself fully to, a passion that sweeps you up in its torrent and pulls you down into its torrid depths. Alchemy is not something you do halfheartedly.

She turns back to him, bewildered. “Yeah. I mean, it’s fun and all, sure, but it’s not like I’m gonna spend the rest of my life on this, y’know?”

Not really. But to his surprise, Al nods in a slow, knowing fashion that implies that he understands in ways Ed can only begin to guess at. It’s incredibly frustrating.

Sheepishness emerges in a small, thin smile across her face. “I’m a mechanic at heart. Alchemy—it just doesn’t feel as... practical.”

 _Practical_ , she says! Ed feels utterly betrayed.

“Automail for her is like alchemy for us,” Al explains later, when Ed is huffy and trying to soothe the sting of perceived rejection. “I bet we could learn about automail, too, and even get interested in it—but it wouldn’t be the same, right?”

Well, when Al puts it like that, it makes sense. But that’s not the _point_ , dammit!

He fumes for a little longer, but ultimately drops it. It’s not as though he can steer her fascinations one way or another. It’s better to just be content with the attention she is giving alchemy now, rather than lament what she is withholding.

Winry allows them to teach her for a little while longer before she thanks them kindly, informing them that to go any further would take a passion for the science that she simply doesn’t possess. It saddens him, because at this point she can reconstruct and deconstruct any metal of her choosing, but alchemy is so much _more_ than that. Sure, it’s a nifty skill, but it’s an art form, too—the ability to crack the universe open and stare at God’s plan, then weave the threads of creation into any form that you so choose. Humankind has made leaps and bounds all because of alchemy. The very principles of it are the defining nature of the human experience!

But it just isn’t for her. She finds that passion in nuts and bolts, in deconstructing with screwdrivers and reconstructing with power tools. Her transmutation circles are wrenches, not patterns traced out of chalk.

“Gearhead,” he informs her, trying to hide his disappointment.

“Alchemy freak,” she returns, as naturally as breathing.

And for some weird reason, Al grins at him knowingly.

“What?”

“Nothing, Brother. Nothing at all.”

Whatever. Without Winry and her lessons to occupy their time, they can allow the human transmutation theory to properly monopolize their focus.

(Perhaps, if Winry had desired to learn a little more, to steal them away from the black books of alchemy and lead them through basics that emphasized that natural law was something to interact with—not play with—their pace may have been slowed, and perhaps permanently stalled. But that is not what happened.)

* * *

_~1909_

It’s difficult to construct a completely unique theory, even more so when there is so little source material. They pull what they can from the anatomy books and (Trisha’s) previous research, but there are still massive gaps. Ed searches for glyphs and scripts that might be ideal, but comes up frustratingly short (he’s unsurprised, this is a taboo subject and the likelihood of any headway gained being published is unlikely at best, unthinkable at worst).

He finds little in the way of modern Amestrian alchemy, less in old Amestrian alchemy. The most he can draw from is the Xerxean alchemy that was the basis of Dad’s research (but those are the books he promised not to look at, not to trouble himself over, stubborn dumbass dad, so he looks instead at the reference books). And the real problem with Xerxean alchemy is that it’s not simple like Amestrian alchemy is. Xerxean alchemy is _complicated_ in ways even Ed, genius that he is, cannot wrap his head around.

“Can _you_ make sense of this?” Ed asks, sliding the book over to Al. In tiny print beneath an overly-elaborate array, Trisha’s handwriting details that it’s a transmutation circle used for creating life. A homunculus, she specifies, which is, according to everything they’ve ever read, a creature similar to humans but born from alchemy, and therefor with an anatomy that is ultimately very similar. And even then, that’s theoretical—they just need to adapt the array so that it creates a human being, not a human-like being, and so that it births a more practical result.

Of course, that means understanding it, first.

Unfortunately, Al only stares blankly.

“Yeah. Me too.” Ed squints at it accusingly. The latticework is overwhelmingly complicated, neither elegant spirals or strong, sturdy lines, but rather an unlikely compromise somewhere between the two. The flow of energy bends and ripples around the circle, and the glyphs occupying the second outer ring are completely foreign to him—he can’t find them _anywhere._ There’s at least half a dozen rings within the outer rim, and five smaller circles dot the array. The central point is even stranger, with a sprawling pattern that might be a tree (the Tree of Life?) that is ultimately encircled by a snake eating its own tail. Even the runes look old, older than any Xerxean script he’s ever read.

“This is indecipherable,” Ed declares sullenly. He rolls onto his back and glares up at the ceiling. It may not be the ceiling’s fault Trisha drew up something so mind-numbingly complicated, but nonetheless, the ceiling is the recipient of his annoyance.

Al sits back on his haunches with a sigh. “Dad always did say old Xerxean alchemy was really, really complicated.”

That he did. “Amestrian alchemy is a science,” he used to say, “but Xerxean alchemy—‘yliastry’, they call it these days—is an artform. Only the very well educated, and therefor the very wealthy, truly understood it.”

 _Dumbass dad_ , Ed thinks miserably, turning his head to survey the transmutation circle again. God, it looks like a work of art, like someone labored twenty years painting it on the ceiling of some cathedral somewhere. _Never got around to teaching this to us. Dammit._

“Hey Brother?”

“Mm. Yeah?” Ed’s eyes are getting sore from staring at the brilliance of the array. Or maybe that’s just because it’s late and the candlelight casts a harsh light.

A look of worry has taken residence on Al’s features. The firelight winks in his amber eyes. “Do—Do you think we can actually do this? Figure it out?”

“Course we can. We’re geniuses.” Now if they could just figure out what the _fuck_ Trisha was doing when she constructed this gorgeous monstrosity.

“But no one’s ever managed to do this before,” Al murmurs. In the silence of the study, his voice echoes ominously. Ed feels a pricking sensation in his gut. “There’s no documented cases—”

“We can do it,” Ed interrupts. He can feel the armor suits in the corner staring at him, almost as if in challenge. “We just—we need to expand our resources is all.”

The thoughtful hum makes him turn his head. He’s met by Al’s slight uncertainty as he mulls over Ed’s statement, chin perched between his thumb and forefinger. “Like... a teacher?”

Ed hesitates at that. Dad will always be their one and only alchemy teacher, surely. He was as good a teacher as he was a father, steady and patient and profoundly loving. To find another would be almost blasphemous, nearly heretical—but the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that Al’s right. They need someone more knowledgeable than them to ( _sigh_ ) teach them.

“Sure,” he agrees, turning back to ceiling so that it knows how deep his lack of enthusiasm runs. “A teacher. Now we just need to find someone who _isn’t_ enough of an asshole to force us into relearning the basics ‘cause we ‘learned ‘em wrong the first time’, or whatever.”

They had a science teacher like that, back when they still attended school. He was very bossy and convinced that his way was the only one, that everything they learned in the safety of their own home was anathema. Naturally, Ed had taken it upon himself to assert his superiority—when Dad was called to the principle’s office, he didn’t scold him, only tousled his hair and exasperatedly reminded him that part of being an adult is tolerating insufferable idiots.

“Dad has a list of alchemists he met over the years.” The offer is halfhearted. Al is no more enthusiastic about the idea of unlearning and relearning, even if they do need assistance. “Maybe we could look there?”

An idea suddenly strikes Ed, a flash of inspiration—he thinks back to Dublith, to a woman who could bend the world with just a clap of her hands and who smiled down at them with eyes the color of onyx.

He sits up so sharply that Al jumps. “I know _exactly_ who to go to!”

* * *

_~1910_

Two years.

It has been two years since Dad passed away. Ed isn’t nine anymore—he’s eleven, and Al is ten. They’re not quite children anymore, or at least not _young_ children. They’re transitioning into a whole new stage of physical development, somewhere between child and adolescent.

(He puts Sig’s awkward attempts at the birds and the bees out of his mind for now. There are more important things to attend to.)

The transmutation circle before him is a masterpiece. There is something clean and elegant about the chalk lines, about their slow, swirling pattern. It is counterpointed by the unsightly plainness of the tin washbasin they poured the ingredients in, but that’s negligible. This theory that he and Al have labored on for so long has taken a life of its own, spreads its wings and bloomed into a living thing that breathed through his lungs and existed through his mind. When he looks, he is filled with an overwhelming thrill of pride and accomplishment. Nothing can take this away.

But Al tries, even unintentionally. He hesitates as he pricks his finger with the athame and allows his blood to dribble into the mushy paste of elements. It has a slightly noxious odor. Ed doesn’t think much of it.

“Do you really think this is enough?” Al’s voice is quiet. Outside, rain has begun to fall, a storm having broken the hypertension of the muggy spring night. The lights cast oddly deep shadows across the room, twisting and writhing as though they don’t know their own shape. “Is this really enough to trade for the soul?”

“Of course,” Ed says. He’s labored over this theory for what feels like forever. He knows it inside and out. It’s foolproof, he’s sure. “We each have one half of Dad’s blood, so—”

“—so both of us make a whole,” Al finishes automatically. There’s a stark lack of rigor from the first time they established this fact. Ed arches a brow. “I, just—it doesn’t _feel_ like enough.”

Well, first of all, science is not about _feelings_ so, that’s not really a valid protest. But it’s Al, so Ed lets it slide. “Look. A soul is another name for the mind, or the spark of life.” The Xerxean word for “soul” is _psūkhḗ_ , which has become the Amestrian word “psyche”—a word for the unconscious mind. If that isn’t proof enough, Ed doesn’t know what is. “It’s not like it’s an actual _material_ or anything.”

Al heaves an exasperated sigh and does not look particularly convinced. “I know.”

“And besides! How would you even calculate for that?” Nothing in Trisha’s or anyone else’s notes talks about transmuting souls. They talk about life, about consciousness and a heartbeat. And sure, there was some talk of transmuting souls, but it was theoretical at best and insubstantial at worst. What they’re essentially doing is recreating something that already existed. All the calculations exist in their memories of Dad and his personality, his booming laugh, his awkward geekiness, his passion for alchemy. It’s all there, waiting to be revived. “There’s no equation for it! Scientifically speaking—"

“I _know_ ,” Al interrupts forcefully, with a stilted, frustrated gesticulation of his right hand. “It’s just...”

“What?”

“...maybe we shouldn’t be doing this?”

Ed cannot _possibly_ have heard that right. “This was _your idea_.”

With a small groan, Al runs a hand over his face. “I know, I know. And it seemed like a good idea at the _time_ , but—”

With a sigh, Ed crosses his arms and fixes his brother with a stern _I’m older than you and therefor know what I’m talking about_ look. “Remember when Auntie and Uncle came back from the war?”

The knife blade flashes as Al turns it over into his hands. “Yeah...”

“And everyone was so happy? ‘Cause they thought they were dead?”

A sigh falls heavily from Al. His shoulders slump, and he pockets the knife. “Yeah.”

“It’ll be just like that,” Ed insists. He takes his little brother by the wrist and guides him to the rim of the array. Conservation of Matter says that things are not destroyed, merely taking a different form. They are simply taking Dad’s essence, already lingering somewhere out there, and returning it to its original vessel. “Everyone’ll be happy, Al! Granny will cry, and Uncle’ll probably punch Dad in the face for being such a dumbass—”

“He won’t,” Al says, but his tone is much more lighthearted than before.

“He will.” A smile finds its way onto Ed’s face as he imagines it. “Winry’ll hug him so hard he’ll start doing that fake thing where he pretends he can’t breathe. And Auntie will just start scolding him until she starts smiling. And it’ll be great, Al! It’ll be just like it’s _supposed_ to.”

Nostalgia sweeps across Al’s face. He looks mollified by this, at the very least, and soon determination reaffirms itself. “Yeah.”

Ed drops to his knees, and Al does the same. Shoulder brushes shoulder, hands hovering. The circle waits. The washbasin waits. Dad waits.

“Ready Al?”

“Ready Brother.”

The room fills with golden light.

* * *

Then

it

all

goes

**wrong**

 

Then the eye, opening up beneath he floor.

Then the black arms reach out, ensnaring.

Then Ed’s leg is gone.

**the snap of pain that occurs is overwhelming, a white-hot agony that floods him so wholly all thoughts evaporate**

Then _Al_ is gone.

**Ed remembers reaching, reaching, _reaching_ —and _just_ as their fingers were about to touch—**

Then _Truth_ , that wicked grin that haunts him with every passing heartbeat of terror and agony.

Then the _Gate_.

**his skull feels like it’s being split open and he wants to _scream_ , he wants to rip himself open and let everything just bleed out because he feels so impossibly _full_**

**but at the same time**

**he finds**   **himself**

**craving**

**_more_ **

Then the toll.

**it hurts so much so much blood make it _stop—_**

_**Dad, help, please** _

Then there is a _thing_ sitting in the room that is _not Dad_ , not even _close_. Then his foul-smelling sick on the ground and the burn of bile in his throat.

Then there is blood, hot and gushing. Then the most unimaginable pain in the _world._

**white-hot, blinding, he can’t see straight**

Then the clatter of metal as he pulls the armor down. Then bloody fingers tracing patterns on the metal. Then screaming, and tears, and fervent begging to a God that would rather tear him apart in the most brutal way imaginable than think to answer his prayers.

**“GIVE HIM _BACK!_ ”**

Then _pain_ , more pain, absence and agony and blood. _This is the toll_ , whispers a deceptively sweet voice in his ear, chills running down his spine. _This is the price you pay for playing God._

Then _Alphonse_ , cold and hard and impossibly huge. Not right but as close as he can get, not strong enough, not enough payment oh God oh God it’s all my fault—

(fool)

Then darkness. Then

**nothing**

* * *

He wakes with a gasp. To the dull, aching throb of old-new-pain and the blurring sensation that comes from something interfering with his metal capacity. He is quick to register a blank white ceiling—terror grips his heart with icy talons, because his first thought is that he’s back in Truth’s hall.

“Ed?” Ed turns his head, wincing at the stiffness in his neck. Uncle’s blurry face floats at the edge of his vision, blond and blue-eyed and stubble clinging to his jaw. The man looks like he hasn’t gotten a wink of sleep in days.

Ed squint, attempting to will his vision into focus. “...Uncle.”

“Thank God.” Uncle’s cool hand comes down on his forehead. The harsh stench of antiseptic radiates off of him in thick waves. “Ed, you’ve been out for the last eighteen hours.”

Eighteen hours? What—

It comes back in a spiralling blur of pain and blood and the horror staring back at them with glowing eyes. A sob builds in his throat as he recalls skyward-arching ribs and a spillage of grotesquely-pulsing organs. He recalls the sheer whiteness of Truth’s hall, the overwhelming vastness of the Gate towering over him. His mind bursting at the seams and the toll—

The toll. Swallowing a yelp of horror, he turns to look at his side. In place of his arm is a thick wrapping of bandages, patches of deep, lurid red blooming across the whiteness of the gauze. And he can’t feel his right leg, only a dull, throbbing ache just above his knee.

His arm gone. His leg is gone.

Oh God. Oh _God_.

But if that’s real, then Al—

Alphonse—

“Al,” Ed says out loud. He tries to sit up, but an arc of pain electrifies its way down his spine. Uncle’s hands are immediately there, pushing back against the mattress and hissing scolds beneath his breath. “Al. Where’s Al? _Is Alphonse okay_?”

“He’s fine, Ed.” The blanket shifts over him. Uncle’s face hovers between in the blurry line between clarity and incoherency. “He’s okay. You need to _rest_.”

No. No he can’t rest. He needs to make sure Al is safe—Al, where’s Al, need to see Al.

“Stop _squirming_.” Uncle’s hands press hand on his abdomen, but Ed writhes in protest anyway. “Okay, okay! I’ll get him! But only if you promise to stop _moving_ —Ed, you’re going to reopen yours wounds!”

He slumps back against the mattress, pain pulsing numbly in the places where there should be fully functional limbs, but instead there is only empty space and bloody bandages. The plushness of it the bed is undeniably comforting, even against the continuous thrum of anxiety in his blood. Uncle says something else in a comforting tone before his presence extricates himself.

 _It’s a dream_ , Ed thinks. _Or a nightmare._ It has to be—God, it has to be. If Ed is down two limbs, if _that’s_ real that then everything _else_ has to be real, and _that means_ —

The sound of creaking metal stirs him from his bleary self-musings. He peers up, vision growing precariously blurry, as a hulking shape fills the doorframe, the harsh gleam of steel and sharp, deadly-looking spikes jutting out. Ghostly eyes glimmer at him from the dark recesses of the helmet.

No...

“Brother?” Al’s voice echoes unnaturally, interlaced by a metallic harshness that offsets the soft meekness of his tone.

 _I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry—_ “Alphonse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terms that you might not recognize:  
> psūkhḗ = Ancient Greek for “soul”, “life”, or “the mind”. It’s Romanized equivalent, psyche, became our word for the mind.
> 
> yliastry = comes from “yliaster”, a theoretical substance that is thought to embody the mind and the soul and seen as the quintessence of alchemy. Some postulate it to be another name for the _prima materia_ , which was considered raw material for the Great Work (Philosopher's Stone). The term was, interestingly enough, first coined by Paracelsus (like "alkahest"). In-universe, the term was first coined in the 1700s and was used to differentiate Xerxean alchemy from Amestrian alchemy, as it was during this time period that the two began to drastically diverge. Since alkahestry has its own unique name, I wanted to do the same with Xerxean alchemy. 
> 
> Once again, if there are any questions, feel free to ask. I will answer anything that doesn't delve too far into spoiler territory. I think this might be all I'll post for October, just due to how much content has been added, but don't quote me on that because there is a slim chance I _may_ change my mind.
> 
> Sincerely yours,  
> The Immortal Moon


	8. Only Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That armor is hollow, isn’t it?” Riza interrupts. She is not addressing anyone in particular, but her gaze instinctively slides over to Edward Hohenheim. He meets it with a challenge in his eyes, the shadow gone to reveal a raw golden burning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween everyone! Well, early Halloween. Let's face it—if I post this on _actual_ Halloween, it's going to get lost in the flood of posts, so I'm just putting it up now to give people a chance to actually realize "oh, hey, there was an update!".
> 
> Warning: Contains allusions to suicidal thoughts and suicide attempts. Reader discretion is advised.

_“It is easier to build strong children than to repair broken men.”_  
—Frederick Douglass

 

_~1899_

For as long as Riza can remember, her father’s study has been off-limits. As was the private library, because it was full of big heavy books, the kind that always ended up strewn across her father’s desk. She doesn’t really understand all of the confusing symbols, but her father says that alchemy is not for children to play with, so she obeys.

When she is nine, though, her curiosity simply overpowers her dutifully obedience. With her chores done and nothing else to occupy her mind, she plucks a thin book from the shelf, and plops down cross-legged on the floor to read it.

It is hours before she is discovered. Father is too preoccupied with his clutter of notes to mind her too much, something that affords her a certain amount of freedom. But she is not entirely free, and so hours later, the book is ripped from her hands and replaced with Berthold Hawkeye’s unsettlingly narrow eyes.

“Father—”

“I’ve told you a thousand times.” Father snaps the book closed so hard that she winces. “These aren’t for children.”

Shame is a sensation that she is rather familiar with at this point. It floods her face warmly, weighs her neck until it bows, eyes on her feet. “I’m sorry, Father.”

“You should be, disobedient girl. What were you even thinking?”

That’s a very good question. She thinks about the words and the world that unfurled underneath them, the way the universe seemed to bloom beneath her fingertips. Alchemy had always been this enigmatic, indeterminate power that existed far beyond the realm of her understanding. But the book had made it something real, something strangely familiar to her, like a second heartbeat she’d never noticed before.

“It was interesting,” she admits sheepishly, as though it somehow makes up for the fact that she deliberately defied him.

The sternness momentarily falters from her father’s features. He looks at the book, then looks back at her. The book, her, the book, her. Connection sparks in his eyes, and he frowns dubiously. “You understood this?”

“...sort of.” It’s a meek understatement of her fascination with the subject. She had never known that alchemy could do all those things, make things new and even fix people who were in pain.

Something considering twitches its way onto Father’s face. “That so? ...Riza.”

“Yes?”

“How would you like to learn this?” he asks carefully. He eyes her warily, as though he isn’t sure what to make of her anymore, as though she has suddenly become quite dangerous but also quite fascinating. “Alchemy, that is.”

A jolt of excitement and bewilderment whirls through her. Her father—willing to teach her this strange, fascinating science, willing to devote his time _just to her_. Oh, it is everything she’s ever dreamed! “Father, I’d love to!”

* * *

_~1910_

The cart jolts hard. Lieutenant Colonel Riza Hawkeye instinctively grips the side of it with one hand. Un-sanded wood bites into her palm.

“Sorry about that, miss,” says the driver. He’s a slightly portly man with a snowy beard, wearing a uniform with a military police’s insignia on the epaulets. The horses in front of him are caramel-colored and give off a pungent odor unlike anything she’s smelled before, but he doesn’t seem to mind it. She supposes it has something to do with him being a country mouse, growing up in a place where farmland stretches as far as the eye can see. Her, she never spent much time around animals. “The roads ain’t paved like in the city, I suppose.”

“It’s fine.” Her gaze turns outwards to the vast, miraculous greenness of the rural East.

Risembool is a ripple of endless hills with tall, swaying grasses that tickle against the dewy blue sky and glitter with the residue of rainfall. Petrichor permeates the air, wet and thick and earthy as it coats her tongue with each inhalation. The sunlight is still damp with moisture as it tentatively drips into the horizon, turning the sky into a yellowing watercolor canvas. Underneath, the wheels of the cart leave sticky furrows in the mud as it rolls its way across the road. In the distance, she can make out rural dwellings, cute little hamlet houses that are homey and comfortable and look as though they were build at least five decades ago, but have endured the passage of time humbly, in a way that only a small town can, just so they can provide a roof over the heads of their owners. She can understand what people mean, now, when they discuss “pastoral beauty”.

The policeman casts a curious glance at them. He’s the chief of police here, or so everyone has told her, though he looks like he hasn’t seen very much action in his career, as though he’s spent his life languishing in an era of minor domestic disputes and little to no property damage. Well, except for the train station bombing she heard about, just before Executive Order 3066 was passed. “So. What brings a pair of high-ranking military officers to little old Risembool?”

Ishval is probably just as much on his mind as it is hers. The are fresh stress lines on his brow—likely from when the war wedged its way into the little town and shook the whole place to its roots. She bites the inside of her cheek.

Across from Riza, her companion shifts in his seat, causing the wood to creak subtly. He crosses one leg over the other, leaning back languidly, dark eyes peering out from beneath a sweep of black bangs. Second Lieutenant Roy Mustang, the picture of ease. “We’re here on account of some promising young alchemists whose names have reached Central.”

“Perhaps you’ve heard of them,” Riza adds. “The Hohenheim brothers? Apparently they’re scarily competent.”

Her statement is rewarded with a dubious look from the old police chief. “The military is interested in kids now?”

“Kids?” Mustang repeats, blinking slowly. “What do you mean kids?”

Brows furrowing, Riza consults her dossier—it’s a color-coded and carefully organized thing, multi-paged and going into deep, illustrative detail. Her eyes rove the compilation of various witness statements from surrounding towns, scant data in the military records, and even baseless rumors that drift out of Risembool. “Edward Hohenheim, age thirty-one—”

“Ed? He’s eleven,” interrupts the old police chief. He looks at her strangely. “His brother is a year younger.”

Mustang looks irreparably flummoxed by this news. Riza just folds her dossier closed with a sigh. “It seems our information is grievously incorrect.”

“What idiot—” Mustang starts, then stops, running a hand through his bangs, then over his face, groaning into his palm. “How can anyone make a mistake _this_ big?”

That’s what Riza would like to know—although, now she thinks about it, there had been no date of birth included in the pamphlet. Perhaps the men in charge of compiling the information, upon seeing this blank space, had grown nervous that they might be punished if the gap was left unfilled, and so they made the best assumption they could based on the information provided to them. The level of competence, they likely determined, translated to an adult more mature than what would be expected of someone in their twenties, but not of someone in their forties or beyond.

Still. It’s unforgivable. She intends to have a word with the Intelligence department back at Central.

“Might be on account of their father,” the chief offers. “He was in his thirties when he died. Maybe that’s where it came from?”

Reasonable, she supposes, but the statement inspires a fresh curl of curiosity in her chest. “Their father?”

“Van Hohenheim,” supplies the man, to which she frowns. “He was an alchemist too.”

Van Hohenheim... Riza takes up the files and starts flipping through them again. Why does that name sound familiar?

“Wait—You don’t mean Van Hohenheim as in  _Hohenheim of Light_ , do you?” Mustang asks suddenly.

Unbidden, a half-formed memory flickers in the depths of Riza’s skull. Mustang, freshly returned from the Academy and regaling her with tales about the utter boredom of his early career after graduating. The only bright spot, he’d said, was when a promising alchemist passed through town with the briskness of a golden summer breeze, then vanished into the distance, leaving behind nothing but the murmurs of his name and a question in anyone who met him. It had sent the whole base atwitter—of course, this was years ago.

_I **thought** the name “Hohenheim” sounded familiar..._

In surprise, the old chief blinks at them. “You know him, then?”

“ _Of_ him,” clarifies Mustang. He looks out at the distant countryside as if seeing it for the first time. Riza does the same, once again drinking the greenness, the idyllic pastures and the vast stretch of hills. She catches sight of a farmer herding a flock of sheep in the distance, a black-and-white blur that is likely a sheepdog of some kind. Barns dot the horizon, burning red. “You say he _lived_ here?”

“Yessir! He was born and raised in Risembool—not like that woman of his, granted, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.”

Riza looks back at the officer, carefully. “Do the boys live with their mother?”

To her surprise, the chief’s face grows somber and slightly stormy, and he turns back to the road. The horses swish their long black tails as they continue a steady trot. “No, ‘fraid not. Their mother up and vanished years ago. Van never remarried—not that they were married in the first place, mind you—and we never heard from her again. But anyhow, he raised those boys all by himself. Now, I don’t mean to speak ill of my sex or nothin’, but you wouldn’t find most men goin’ to the same trouble, if you know what I’m saying.”

Small towns. Always so chatty. Mustang casts the chief a slightly disapproving look. Riza tries to smother her own annoyance.

“Any other relatives?” Riza asks. No mother, no father—a twist of empathic sympathy goes through her. “Aunts, uncles? Grandparents?”

“None,” says the chief sadly. He whips the horses, causing them to speed up a little. “Thankfully, though, their neighbors were quite close to Van, so they’ve got them. But it ain’t quite the same, is it?”

No. It really isn’t. Setting the file aside with a sigh, Riza places her hands flat upon her knees. “Sir, I appreciate you taking us all the way here. But I think we should head back now.”

Alarm and bewilderment flashes across Mustang’s face as he blinks at her. “Why?”

She meets his bewilderment with a stern frown. “Because they’re children, lieutenant.”

“So... we can’t meet with them?”

“We _shouldn’t_.” The ethical implications of recruiting children into the military—she may be a monster who burnt millions to a crisp at the snap of her fingers, but she likes to think that she still has some shred of morality in her to not stoop so low.

Seeming to guess her thought process, Mustang arches a brow. “We can still just _talk_ to them, you know. No harm in that, right?”

Yes. Harm. Very much harm. Impressionable children at stake. “True, but, no.”

He stares at her for a moment with those inscrutable dark eyes—she can never figure out their color, whether they are black as onyx or a deep brown that mimics it or just a very deep, deep shade of navy blue. Then he leans back, crossing his arms behind his head and resuming the guise of carelessness. “Well, _I_ can still talk to them. Hey! Maybe I’ll get a promotion out of this and, one day, completely surpass you!”

Riza stares at him blankly.

“What? It could happen! ‘Colonel Roy Mustang’ has a nice ring to it.”

She blinks.

He clucks his tongue. “So judgmental.”

The chief peers at them nervously. Behind him, or perhaps in front of them, a pair of hills swell in the distance, each one topped with a rustic-looking cottage. The leftmost is larger, with a sign planted in front of it that is too far away for even Riza’s sharp eyes can’t discern in the fading light. On the right is a more modest-looking abode, painted prim white and with a tire swing hanging from the modestly-sized tree growing next to it. “So... are we visiting the Hohenheims or...?”

“No,” Riza says at the same time Mustang says, “Yes.”

All around them, the sky is bleeding into yellows and oranges and a distant red that look like flames burning against the horizon. She has to look away, because it reminds her of desert sands and the pungent odor of smoke. “Lieutenant, I’m your superior officer. I believe my decision overrides yours.”

“Well,” begins the chief nervously, as they come to a stop at the foot of the hill, “we’re actually here.”

Very pointedly, she ignores the imploring look Mustang sends her. “Well, thank you, sir, but I think—”

Before she can finish, Mustang rises to his feet.

Her brows furrow. “Lieutenant, what are you—”

Without a word, he vaults over the edge of the cart and takes off up the dirt path. “Follow if you want,” he calls after her jauntily, with a casual wave of his hand. “In the meantime, sir, I’m going to awash myself in children’s admiration. They’re usually a sucker for us uniformed officers, you know!”

“Lieutenant!” Ugh, damn, why didn’t she bring Havoc? With an exasperated sigh, she scoops up her files and leaps out of the cart. Her boots sink deep into the mud as she trots after him. “Lieutenant _Mustang_!”

He does not slow or pause—at least not until he reaches the porch, and then he freezes unexpectedly with one foot on the bottom step. His hand grips the banister. She watches it tighten.

A touch of anxiety settles in her belly as she slows to a halt in front of the porch. “What?” she demands, perhaps a little sharper than necessary.

She can only see his profile, but there’s a concerned, contemplative furrow in his brow. He releases the banister and steps back down. With a frown of her own, she follows his flinty gaze to the front door—which is swinging faintly on its hinges.

Anxiety coils around her insides, her ribs clenching around her lungs and heart. Unconsciously, her free hand slides into her side pocket, fingers curling around the rough fabric of her ignition gloves. “It’s a small town,” she says quietly. “Small towns are known to leave their doors unlocked.”

“But not open,” Mustang points out gruffly. She’s only looked away for a moment, but he already has a gun in hand. The man is a savant when it comes to hiding guns. “Your orders, sir?”

Orders. Right. Riza presses her tongue to the top of her mouth contemplatively. “We go in through the front. You cover the back. Sound good?”

“It’s not my place to verify your orders, sir.” To her annoyed glare, he flashes a watery grin. “Yes, sir.”

The sound of panting and puffing makes her turn. Doubled over and flushed, the police chief has appeared behind her. Beyond, the horses are tied up on the fence at the foot of the hill. It seems he’s decided to back them up.

“Sir?” She tries to keep her tone light, allowing her gratitude to show in only slivers and bits. “Could you go check around back?”

“Sure,” puffs the old man. He straightens, still looking rather winded, but slowly putters off to check the back door. She watches him go, removing her gloves from her pocket and slipping them over her hands.

“New orders—lieutenant, take the upstairs. I’ll take the downstairs.” She doesn’t wait for his nod of confirmation before she climbs the steps.

There is a shrill, ominous whine from the hinges as the door creaks open. Shadows are cast long and deep in the house’s interior, the fading light in the horizon doing nothing to add clarity to the dusky, undefined silhouettes of furniture. She flexes her free hand, testing the feel of the thick fabric around her fingers. The files are still tucked protectively under her arm by some irrational urge to keep the paperwork safe.

Mustang follows after her. He is less light-footed than her, and the floor boards give an ominous creak beneath his boots. The instinctively neat part of her winces at the idea of tracking mud into this lovely little home, but its mostly overpowered by her soldier’s instinct—the part of her that has the war in her nerves, that is practiced in peering around the corners for attackers and has her mind trained to snap at the first sign of trouble.

Breathe in, breathe out. The air is thick with danger—it reminds her of mornings out in the desert, when the possibility of dying pressed so closely to your chest that your lungs forgot how to work.

Ishval is uncomfortably close to Risembool. It bothered her when the assignment came down the pike. Especially because it was not eight months since it ended, and the sand had left her skin raw with remembrance, her shoulders still burnt from the desert sun beating down on them so hard that perspiration sprung across her back. She wonders if perhaps a survivor of the Extermination wandered into this small, unassuming town to enact some justified revenge on poor, unsuspecting little boys.

Somehow, she finds her way into the kitchen, and the light switch is atop her finger before she can process it. The lights stutter as they flicker on, dark and light, dark and light, almost indecisively. Yellow bulbs hum as they burn overhead. She almost imagines that they are like the sun in the desert.

No. Stop that. Ishval is over.

(it’s supposed to be, anyway)

A general sense of messiness pervades the kitchen. Burnt, crusted something has built up around the stove and needs to be cleaned. One of the drawers is not fully closed, with some metallic instrument jutting out haphazardly, as though put away in a rush. Dishes, only a handful, have been left in the sink, unwashed. A cabinet door is slightly ajar. On impulse, Riza shuts it.

Behind her, she hears Mustang’s heavy steps thump their way up the stairs. Distantly, she can hear the chief calling the boys’ names. She hopes he has a gun, or at least some way of defending himself, if worse comes to worse.

A collection of photographs is pinned to the refrigerator. The one that catches her eye most is that of a pair of young boys splashing in a river beside a girl, yellow-blonde and a rather pretty, who is drenched to the bone and shouting indignantly. The boys, both of them golden-blond and deeply tanned in complexion, are euphorically carefree in contrast. The boy with shaggy bangs has a fishing rod slung over one shoulder, and the other has a fish hanging off a hook clutched in hand.

With the kitchen deemed empty, Riza makes her way towards what looks like the living room. Light from the kitchen drifts over, fluttering tentatively at the edges of objects, as though quietly running its fingers across the silhouettes out of remembrance, or some sort of nostalgia. A dishrag has been left on the coffee table, for some reason, right next to a stack of badly aligned papers. To her surprise, she recognizes a few of the symbols on the pages to be alchemic in nature (well, she shouldn’t be surprised, the boys were apparently noteworthy enough for the Intelligence team to think they were much, much older). In the corner, a wireless radio sits atop a table, turned off, though the antennae look as though they’ve been adjusted several times by clumsy hands. Blankets have been left on the couch and the armchair, likely left behind by a careless host in a constant chill. There’s a little wooden bookshelf next to a brick fireplace (not very wise, if you ask her), with a few titles she recognizes from her girlhood.

Frowning, Riza sets the files down on the coffee table. The lingering sense of peril has not dissipated, though for some reason she finds herself less sure that the source is an intruder of some kind—but rather something more insidious, less corporeal. She adjusts the glove on her other hand, nerves buzzing, then bends down to pick up the books and set them on the coffee table. Upstairs, the sound of creaking hinges drifts down, and Mustang’s voice steadily announces his presence.

The police chief’s voice calls from the gloom further in the house, “They aren’t in the back. Anything there?”

“No.” Even as she says that, Mustang’s voice shouts a hissed swear from above. Nerves leaping, she turns sharply. “Lieutenant?”

“Colonel.” Mustang’s tone is uncharacteristically sharp and high, with a faint tremor in the last syllable. “You—might want to see this.”

Anxiety hums through her as she marches briskly up the stairs. Mustang stands frozen before the door nearest to the staircase, his gun lowered and his free hand clenching hard at the doorknob. She can only see his profile, but his eyes are wide and there is a sickly paleness to his expression (the only other time she has seen him look so shaken was when he witnessed her work in Ishval).

Before she can ask what’s the matter, the smell hits her—a thick, rancid stench, like raw meat left in the sun too long, heavily interlaced with cloying rot and the raw, electrified scent of transmutation.

He glances at her, and she takes only a moment to register the horror on his face before he releases the knob, stepping aside so she can have better access to the room.

The unnerving sensation is much stronger here, to the point where she is tempted to label this room the point of origin. Darkness falls much more thickly here than anywhere else in the house. Mustang has even turned the lights on in the hall, but for some reason, it doesn’t reach into the room. That sense of ominousness coalesces into a visceral, full-body shudder. She takes a bold step forward regardless, glove poised in front of her. Her form casts an elongated silhouette across the floor.

Her eyes slowly adjust. Bookshelves and desks are pressed flat against the wall. A partial suit of armor glints in the gloom. White chalk lines glow against the shadows, marred by a large puddle of something dark that overlaps. There’s something in the center, some dark, undefined mass she is unable to make out. Empty bottles litter the ground—one of the labels hits the light at a decipherable angle. She frowns as she makes out the word “ammonia”.

Without warning, the lights flicker on—a mere flash of bright, sudden light. They stutter back to darkness a second later, but it is enough time for her to make out the gruesome visage of the warped, twisted monstrosity at the circle’s center.

Riza recoils in horror. Heart in her throat, breath shuddering in her lungs, she looks back down at the chalk circle. The symbols jump out at her.

All at once, she understands.

Withdrawing, Riza grips the handle and slams the door closed.

“Colonel.” Mustang’s voice is low. “That was—blood, wasn’t it?”

It was so much more than that. And he knows it, too.

Creaking from behind has her whirling around. The police chief huffs halfway up the staircase, having paused to take a breath. He peers up, drinks in the disgusted horror of their expressions, and his brows furrow worriedly. “What happened?”

“Is there anywhere the Hohenheim brothers might go?” Riza commends herself for the fact that her voice remains so steady. Her mind races back to the cart ride, to what he said about the boys’ family, or lack of it. “You said—You said they had neighbors who looked after them?”

“Yes, on the hill to the left. Why—”

But neither of them are listening after that. Exchanging looks of matching urgency, she and Roy brush past the old man, all but stampeding down the stairs. In her haste, Riza completely forgets her files.

* * *

There is a massive trail of footprints that lead from the Hohenheim residence to their neighbors’. They are vaguely foot-shaped, though the owner must have been a hulking individual, not a child of any kind. It puzzles Riza, because there was no evidence of forced entry or another presence in the house. Even the chief is unsure what to make of them.

She walks briskly, Mustang at her heels. His gaze keeps pricking her shoulders, thoughts probably spinning as wildly as hers. With the way that monstrous _thing_ was illuminated, however briefly, even he cannot deny the implications. Slowly but surely, the second house looms closer. Deep navy darkness presses down on the horizon, squeezing the color out from the sunset. The sun itself has long since gone, leaving only a fiery haze as testament to its existence, as though it crashed and burned when it hit the ground.

 _Rockbell Prosthetic Limb Outfitters_ , reads the sign as the letters become clearer.

The blood in Riza’s veins frosts. _Rockbell_. She is suddenly in a medical tent, the heat sweltering and sweat dripping into her brow and her fingers twitching around a trigger and Colonel Gran’s _orders_ —

Mustang pays no heed. He simply marches past, then pauses, the way one does when they suddenly forget themselves, and glances over his shoulder at her. “Colonel?”

Every muscle in her body is conspiring to keep her rooted in place. The image of wide blue eyes hovers before her like a mirage brought by desert heat. She smells blood and burning flesh, sees smoke rising from freshly-charred bodies...

But then she remembers the monstrosity in that house and her jaw clenches. That is the thing she must occupy her mind with, not Ishval. One tragedy at a time, Hawkeye.

“Apologies, lieutenant,” is all she says, and marches past him.

The patio is inhabited by a dog—Riza does not know the breed, but it is black-and-white, sturdily build, a gleaming prosthetic in the place of a front leg. As they approach, the dog’s ears perk, and then it lifts its head. The smell of strangers is an unwelcome one, apparently, or perhaps animals simply have the inherent ability to sense intention, because it rises to its feet and begins growling.

“Easy, pooch,” Mustang offers placatingly. Riza, though, ignores the creature altogether and makes for the door. The loud banging of her knuckles against the wood is offset by the dog’s barking.

With a whine of protest, the door opens. All of Risembool must be creaky hinges and not enough oil to lubricate them. She hardly registers the woman who answers the door—a squat little being with a spitfire in her eyes and smoke curling from her pipe—before she is uttering a brisk “pardon me” and then shouldering her way in.

“Hey!” the old woman shouts. “What do you think you’re doing? You military brutes can’t just barge in here and—”

Mustang begins placating her in the way that only a smooth-talking gentleman can. Riza is not listening. All she thinks about is blood and the detritus of transmutation that hung in the air.

The walls seem to contract around her. There is a man in the kitchen whose face she refuses to look at. A girl at the table, who mirrors the girl Riza saw in the photo, leaps to her feet, but Riza pays her no mind. She storms down the hall and begins throwing open door after door after door. It is only when she catches the glint of metal that she stops.

A great, hulking suit of armor is bent before a boy, lying in a bed and shrouded in white the way a corpse would be, that looks abruptly small in comparison. She hardly registers the blond hair and oddly tawny eyes or how the voice from the armor is startlingly young before she is towering over them. When the boy peers up at her, she thinks she might see fear.

“What did you _do_?” she demands while at the same time thinking, _He’s safe, he’s alive, thank God._

But the boy does not answer. She looks at him more closely and sees that the blanket falls flat in places where it should bend around limbs, an arm and a leg that are simply not there. Bandages are spotted with dark, crusty patches. His bangs fall over his face, dampened and dull with sweat, unwashed. She looks at his eyes—they remind her of the endless dunes in Ishval, burning golden-brown, cast in shadow when a haphazard cloud dared to float in front of the sun.

It shakes her more than she is willing to admit.

So she pretends not to notice and ploughs ahead. “I saw the thing at your house—the corpse and the circle. _Tell_ me that wasn’t human transmutation. _Tell_ me you two didn’t break the ultimate taboo.”

But the boy does not answer.

A large, leathery hand comes to rest on her shoulder. She jumps and whirls around, fingers tense. The suit of armor flinches back with a too-loud creak, taking one step back and holding its hands out in a placating manner. Twin scarlet lights pin her, peering out from within the dark interior of the helmet. Though the helmet is stiff and expressionless, those lights are painfully expressive. There is fear there, plain and simple.

“Who are you?” she asks slowly. In her peripheral, she sees the boy shift. His face tightens with a protective rage.

“A-Alphonse Hohenheim,” stutters the armor. The voice is absurdly young, and echoes in a strange, metallic manner that gives her pause more than the youth of it.

Relaxing from her defensive position (she doesn’t even remember getting into that, damn, she was poised to burn him to a crisp and didn’t even know it), Riza frowns. Alphonse Hohenheim—the younger brother. She remembers the photo on the fridge, the two golden boys. If the one lying broken and bloody on the mattress at her side is the elder, then the one standing in front of her is the younger one with shorter hair. In the picture he had been slightly taller than his sibling, but for him to fill a suit of armor that surpasses six feet is unthinkable.

Footsteps. Mustang pokes his head through the doorway, cautious. At the sight of the suit of armor, his eyes widen in alarm and his hand immediately darts to his hip, gripping one of his many guns. Riza holds her hand up to pacify him. At her other side, the older brother—Edward Hohenheim, no doubt—has begun to vocalize in a harsh, grating fashion. She ignores it.

With the same hand she held the lieutenant off with, Riza knocks on the metal breastplate. The sound echoes deeper than it should. Alphonse Hohenheim tenses.

_Good God._

Behind Mustang, a woman with flaxen waves and a stern face appears. “You shouldn’t be in here,” she scolds with a quiet ferocity that Riza is far too familiar with (she saw it in the tent, when they, her and her husband, both stared her down, daring her to pull the trigger). “They need to rest—”

“That armor is hollow, isn’t it?” Riza interrupts. She is not addressing anyone in particular, but her gaze instinctively slides over to Edward Hohenheim. He meets it with a challenge in his eyes, the shadow gone to reveal a raw golden burning.

Everyone freezes. Alphonse shrinks in on himself, but he’s too large to properly vanish from her gaze. Mustang blinks first at Riza, then at Alphonse, then at Edward, then back at Riza again, before his hand finally removes itself from the gun holster. The blonde woman’s hands clench into fists, looking like she wants to drag them out of the room with her bare hands. Edward’s chest rises and falls with sharp, heavy breaths.

God. _God_. What had these boys _done_ to themselves? One brother missing two limbs, bloody and broken. The other trapped in a metal shell. Good God.

Riza sweeps her gaze around the room. “Tell me what happened. _Now_.”

“We’re sorry,” says Alphonse Hohenheim. He was probably a beautiful boy once—but he isn’t anymore. All she sees is harsh, sharp metal and a countenance meant to inspire fear upon the battlefield. “We’re sorry. We’re _sorry_. _Please_.”

His broken voice snaps the woman out of her daze. She elbows her way past Mustang and snatches Riza’s wrist in her hand. “These boys have been through _enough_ , don’t you think, Major—”

“Lieutenant Colonel,” Riza corrects, perhaps a bit too sharply.

“—Lieutenant Colonel Hawkeye,” amends the woman tartly.

The fact that this woman knows her name is not lost on anyone. Edward shifts, looking like he might sit up if he had his other arm, his face wrought with the conflict between pain and inquisitiveness. Mustang sends a silent question Riza’s way with those indelible-ink eyes, but he knows that answers can wait longer than questions.

Only gargantuan Alphonse has the courage to ask. “Auntie, you know this woman?”

“We met in Ishval,” says the woman with a hint of steel. At the same time, Riza evenly retorts, “We’ve never met.”

Surprised, the woman looks at her.

Wetting her lips, Riza thinks about gunshots and smoking flesh. “Sarah Rockbell is dead. As is her husband. I killed them both with my own hands. You and I _do not know each other_.” Before that statement and the weight of it can properly diffuse into the air, she shoulders her way past Mustang and Not-Sarah-Rockbell and out into the hall. “I’m going to wait in the dining room. And I expect _someone_ to give me an explanation.”

* * *

_~1906_

The headstone sits before Riza, completely impassive. She isn’t sure what she is expecting of it—it is a cold, unfeeling thing incapable of the barest hints of affection. It is solemn and reserved, grim but not melancholy. It says nothing to her, and for all it could care, she doesn’t even exist. In a way, it is much like the man it stands for.

Berthold Hawkeye’s name and dates are etched into the stone. She did it herself, because there was no money in the budget for a carver. In fact, the stone itself was not so much purchased as it was hastily transmuted from the rocks in the garden.

“You say it was last year?” Mr. Mustang’s breath crystalizes in the crisp autumn air. Winter is evident in the nip of cold, in the way the branches have grown bare after shedding their leaves and the color has slowly waned from the sky. She envies him his thick woolen jacket, even if it is military-issued.

Wordlessly, she nods. Her hands are growing numb. She wishes she brought gloves. Or a scarf. Her turtleneck is hardly enough.

“I didn’t even know he was ill.” He turns to the headstone with infinitely dark eyes. She had forgotten how deep they were, how you could sink into them if you weren’t careful. “He never told me.”

A small, childish part of her experiences a thrill upon hearing this, that Berthold trusted her with this information and not Mr. Mustang. But she tamps it down, because she is not a child, so she mustn’t act like one. “It was a lung disease of some kind... I think. We never could afford a doctor.”

Something like sympathy flashes across his face, but she chooses to ignore it. “If you needed money—”

“I am not a charity case, Mr. Mustang,” she interrupts stiffly. He and his fancy military pension feels awkwardly intimidating, which doesn’t make sense, because Mr. Mustang is still Mr. Mustang, as he always has been. “And I’ve been managing on my own just fine, thank you.”

Those inscrutable dark eyes flick over to her. She feels a question in them, but she does not look for fear of getting lost. “Have you?”

It sounds more like a challenge than it is probably meant to be. She rolls her shoulders. Her back is stiff with the memory of pain and delusion. “I’ve gotten a job as a cleaner. I come by when folks aren’t home to pick up after them. A life of house chores has served me well.”

He peers her for a moment longer, searchingly, then looks back at the grave. What he’s expecting from it, she doesn’t know. Underneath those unfathomable eyes of his, the measly bouquet of wildflowers she scrounged up last week, all of the browning and withered, looks even more pitiful. “Would it trouble you terribly if I stayed for a few days, Miss Hawkeye?”

She looks at him in surprise. “Why,” she starts, then stops, because she already knows the reason. Riza may have never been close to Berthold Hawkeye, but Mr. Mustang valued him as a mentor, to some extent. God knows why.

“I have a week before I’m scheduled to return,” he explains. Perhaps it is her imagination, but she swears he is a touch sheepish. “I thought... never mind what I thought. I could help around, if you want.”

“Oh?” Slightly amused, she quirks a brow.

“Er. Pay my way, as it were.” His nervousness is both puzzling and endearing. “Equivalent Exchange, yeah?”

To her own surprise, a little chuckle falls from her lips. She thinks back to the reserved, ungainly boy who showed up on her doorstep years ago with a letter in hand and rain in his hair. Her father had offered him the same deal, chores and housework in exchange for lessons (of course, with the added fee paid by Mr. Mustang’s mysterious benefactor, so it wasn’t _quite_ equivalent). To think that so much time had passed since then.

“Sure,” she says, and the word melts some of the chill between them. “Equivalent Exchange.”

* * *

_~1910_

_They must have loved their father a great deal_ , is Riza’s first thought as Alphonse recounts the story. Edward is still drifting in and out of consciousness, as he has been for several hours prior to her arrival, so it is up to the younger of the two to explain themselves on his behalf.

Alphonse takes responsibility for the initial idea. Edward, he says, only adopted it as his own and added to it, but Alphonse claims he is the only one to blame. They labored on it for the two years since their father passed, then put the insidious plan into action only yesterday.

It did not go well.

“I don’t remember a lot,” Alphonse admits tentatively. His bulk is unbecoming of him. Somehow, Riza gets the impression that he was a timid, gentle child when he was flesh. “I remember—flashes, sort of. Before the transmutation, and then after, with striking clarity. But nothing during. I just remember waking up with Brother bleeding out all over the floor and...”

And the “thing” he doesn’t say. The thing that Mustang and George Rochenbeck (not Urey Rockbell) have gone to bury.

“You’re okay with burying evidence?” George asked skeptically. It was clear from the cynicism in his eyes that he expected them to bag the creature up as evidence and then present it at the Fuhrer’s feet during a trial. He expected them to snatch up the brothers and condemn them to a firing squad for breaking the law. His distrust of the military, though perhaps misplaced in this case, was justified, considering.

Mustang sent her an uncertain look, then turned back to George. “Would you rather we burn it?”

“I’d rather not burn it,” Riza said. “The fire will attract too much attention if we do it at night. We can’t do it discreetly in the day, either. Of course, we could do that inside, but then we run the risk of burning the whole house down.”

Her answer had evidently surprised George. He looked first at her, then at Mustang, then at her again.

“I don’t have to come,” said Mustang gently, “if you’d rather I didn’t. I only ask because two shovels are faster than one.”

Grudgingly, George consented. He and Mustang retrieved a set of shovels from the shed out back, then took off out the door and into the night. A kerosene lamp dangled from Mustang’s gloved hand as he sent a jaunty smile in Riza’s direction (which was actually meant to be reassurance) and announced they would probably return within a couple hours. That had been half an hour ago.

Looking at Alphonse, Riza cannot help but marvel a little at the story. Soul transmutation, though always theorized about, had never been put into practice. Not in recorded history, anyway. Reluctantly, he had shown her the seal his brother painted on the metal in his own blood and explained that Edward had traded his arm for Alphonse’s soul.

“Traded it where?” Riza asks. Matter does not spontaneously disappear or reappear. True, you can convert it into energy, but Al seems to imply that Edward brought him back from the cold jaws of death somehow. As though Edward made a deal with the devil. “How?”

To this, Alphonse only shrugs helplessly. Or, manages the soul-trapped-in-armor equivalent of a shrug.

In the kitchen, Sadie Rochenbeck (not Sarah Rockbell) is rummaging around restlessly, opening and closing cabinets just to make noise, stockpiling painkillers and rolls of gauze on the counter for later use. The little girl disappeared from the room at some point, but Riza can feel her inquisitive gaze raking across her back from time to time. Across the table from Riza, the old woman sits, puffing smoke in a disapproving manner.

It’s the uniform, Riza supposes, that makes them so uneasy. Navy blue and gold has long since become an anathema to small towns who live far, far away from the government’s reach and never bought into the illusion the way big cities have. Even more so on account of the war. Especially because Risembool was so damn close to the chaos.

Riza laces her fingers together. Alphonse’s account, though clarifying, also has many holes in. Too many. No one else in the vicinity seems to have enough of an understanding of alchemy to corroborate. The only one who can truly offer a complete explanation is lying in bed, half-conscious.

With a sigh, she rises to her feet. “I’d very much like to get Edward’s account.”

Immediately, the old woman starts, “That boy is no condition—”

“Of course,” Riza answers smoothly. The old woman stops, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “He clearly needs time to recover. When should I come back?”

“Back?” The sound of a squeaky voice has Riza turning. A pair of blue eyes peer out from the hall, not so much suspicious as they are wary, bordering accusatory. “You’re coming _back_?”

In the kitchen, Sadie pauses her restless movement to breathe a sharp, scolding murmur of “Winry!”. But it goes unheeded, the girl melting back into the shadows with a huff and no apology. Riza turns back and holds the old woman’s gaze.

“I’ll get a testimony from him when he’s more lucid,” Riza explains evenly. “Questioning him now would be cruel. As a medical professional, do you think, say, two days is enough time?”

The suspicion in the old woman’s eyes doesn’t abate. Her mouth tightens around her pipe, but she says nothing.

Instead, it is Sadie who speaks, gripping a dishrag as though making to wring it out. “It should be.”

“Very well.” She dips her head first towards Sadie, then towards the old woman, and finally to hulking Al. “I will return in two days. In the meantime, I will be staying at the inn. If any new information comes to light, please alert me immediately.”

No one protests as she leaves. She does not expect them to. The moment she exits the front door and closes it behind her, murmured conversations erupt, a hushed cacophony of confusion and outrage and uncertainty. For the most part, she ignores it.

At the sound of her footsteps, the old police chief—who had been at that point sitting on the porch to give them privacy and occupying the dog so it would not interrupt them with offensively loud barking—glances up. There is curiosity in the arch of his brow, unspoken suspicion. Even with his obligation to the law and the instinctive vow that every police officer makes to yield to the military, he is a product of a small town. Small towns protect their own, and that always comes first. In a way, she envies the people of Risembool. They are watched by a good man.

“Edward Hohenheim is unwell,” she explains, answering the unspoken question. “He is not up to answering questions. I’m not going to press a child in such a state, so I will return within two days once his condition has improved.”

“I see,” he says carefully. He does not know what has transpired, nor does he need to. He won’t understand. No one will.

“The boys have been through a very taxing experience,” Riza goes on. The dog, sitting at the man’s feet, suddenly perks up. It doesn’t growl or bark, but it sniffs the air as though her foreign scent repulses it. “I think—and the Rockbells, grudgingly, might agree with me—that any company might bring unwanted stress.”

He meets her statement with more confusion than suspicion. He doesn’t strike her as the wary, intellectual type, more of a simple man who is perhaps too trusting for his own good. “Of course, sir.”

She gives a sharp nod and walks passed him with the measured gait of a soldier. Back straight, shoulders rigid, head held high. “If my lieutenant returns, please inform him that I’ve checked into the inn.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you,” she says, and walks off before she can register his surprise at her saying that.

* * *

 _Ye Old Sun_ is an old building that had apparently been open since 1843, family owned and mildly successful. Travelers are uncommon in such a small town, so the Hartford family, who have been the proprietors since its founding despite the surname changing many times, remedied this by doubling it as a tavern. Because of this, drunken laughter drifts up through the floorboards, and Riza stares contemplatively at the floor as she tries to imagine the revelry going on downstairs. To think, two little boys have been broken, crushed by the capricious hand of God, yet people still celebrated without a care.

Well, she shouldn’t be surprised at this point. She had witnessed many a festivity in Ishval following proclamations of perceived success. And in those days, she burned just as many children as she did adults. Life simply makes no distinction between the young and the old, between tragedy and triumph. No matter what, time marches on. If you are wise, you march with it.

(she can’t forget the darkness in Edward’s eyes, or the way Al’s voice quivered as he described their costly failure)

The lock on the door turns. She tenses, but when it opens, it is only Mustang who enters, and she relaxes again a moment later. Her and her frayed nerves.

He has the sense not to smile, at least, not even in a reassuring manner. Smudges of dirt dance across his left cheekbone and cling the edges of his uniform. His sleeves, in particular, are quite muddy, as are his gloved hands, which clutch a stack of papers bound in a manila folder—the dossier she left at the house. His boots are also caked in mud, though it seems like there’s not enough on the soles to track it across the floor. Dark eyes probe her inquisitively, as though she is a roll of parchment waiting to be ruined with the spill of ink.

“How did it go?” she asks. Her hands rest on her knees like stones, the bloody array crafted by her father stark against white ignition fabric. She put on her gloves what feels like an eternity ago, then completely forgot to take them off, even now.

Slowly, carefully, he closes the door behind him. To her surprise, the hinges do not creak. Perhaps someone finally cared enough to oil them. “The product was buried in the backyard. Mr. Rockbell—”

“Rochenbeck,” she corrects.

With a politician’s grace, he continues without faltering. “—Mr. Rochenbeck marked it with a pair of branches tied into the shape of a cross. We then went to the study to scrub the blood away.”

Her eyes feel heavier than iron, as though they are ready to roll out of their sockets. “And the array?”

“Chalk does not withstand well against wet sponges,” he informs her.

Good. Good. She nods her assent, then peers down at her hands again. The arrays stare back at her. A sudden bolt of disgust and self-loathing goes through her. She tears them off swiftly, then jams them into her pocket, far from sight.

Beside her, the springs of the mattress creak as his weight settles onto it. He sets the files aside. “I am in no way acquainted with bioalchemy, but the array itself was an impressive thing. It’s hard to believe a pair of children conceived it.”

A memory of her child self browsing her father’s library emerges in her mind. Nine-years-old and too naïve to know better. “Genius is most deadly in a child’s hands.”

They lapse into silence. Riza finds her thoughts unconsciously drifting back to the desert, to the revolting stench of cooked flesh and corpses lining the streets between clay buildings. Children crying for mothers that would never return to them. Mothers lamenting children who were burnt beyond recognition.

“They’re just children.” Her own murmured voice comes out before she can stop it. The sound of it makes her startle, her words too-loud for the walls.

Mustang folds one leg over the other with careless grace. “The crosshairs of Fate are indiscriminate, sir.”

She can’t help the weak chuckle that leaves her. Had she not been thinking the same thing only a few minutes ago? Truly, they had been cut from the same cloth, sheered with the military’s scissors until they became perfect navy-blue squares on the patchwork quilt of Amestris. She closes her eyes.

“I saw the boy in the bed.” Mustang’s voice is the barest whisper against the low din of drunken men. “He had a spark in his eyes, you know.”

Yes. A spark. She’d seen it too—the spot of brightness, of ferocity and spirit that was nearly swallowed by despair. “A spark doesn’t always start a fire, lieutenant.”

Springs creak as Mustang’s weight shifts, followed by the thump of boots hitting the floor. His shoulder brushes hers for a moment. “It does if the right kindling is available.”

Slowly, her eyes crack open. Her vision is still halfway between darkness and color, blurred somewhere beneath the veil of her lashes. In the blur, she sees rolling sand dunes and a burning sky. “I’m getting tired of fire. Let’s talk about something else.”

A pause, then, “Alright. May I ask why there’s only one bed?”

...why is she not surprised. His nearness is suddenly all-too-prominent, so she stands up with a sigh. She rolls her shoulders to rid them of the stiffness there. “I was the only one at the reception desk. They made assumptions. By the time I went back to the front desk, there was no one there. It really speaks to the poor service of this establishment.”

“Of course,” he says. Damn him, she can _hear_ the smirk twitching on his face.

“We won’t be sharing a bed,” she informs him bluntly. The kerosene lamp she lit casts odd, ghostly shadows over the walls.

“Of course,” Mustang repeats. The springs creak again, and muted footsteps travel to the other side of the room. A rustle of clothing causes her to turn her head subtly towards him, in time to see him shedding his jacket. After a moment, he adds, “sir.”

She looks away quickly. They’re on duty, remember? On _duty_. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

He fixes her with a curious look that she does her best to ignore. “Nonsense! _I’ll_ sleep on the floor.”

Curtains flutter over the window. It’s dark out, now. She hadn’t noticed before. The rolling hills of Risembool are shrouded in an immense night that seems to stretch on forever. It strikes her, suddenly, and she is dizzy with wonder at how daylight could ever hope to pierce such a vast and oppressive darkness. “Why?”

“It’s better for your back.” When she turns her head to blink at him, he flashes his chivalrous smile, the one that disarm anyone caught unawares. “And I’m a gentleman.”

“You’re no gentleman,” she retorts, but she allows some warmth to tint her voice. “Not if the rumors circulating around you are any indication.”

His soft, short laugh flutters through the air as though it has wings, like a moth seeking light. She allows a small smile, but nothing more. After all, they are here on account of a tragedy. No force, no principle or law—Equivalent Exchange or otherwise—allows them to find comfort in each other’s presence during such an event.

* * *

_~1906_

Later that evening, Mr. Mustang remarks, “I noticed that a lot of the books are missing from the library.”

To her credit, Riza does not flinch. Her hand jerks subtly, but the action is lost due to the sudsy water that obscures it. As if it never happened, she continues lathering the dish with the sponge until the remnants of sauce bleeds into the sink. “Yes.”

It’s perhaps a testament to how well he knows her, or perhaps once knew her, that he is not deterred by her evasiveness. “What happened to them?”

With practiced composure, she lifts the dish out of the water and lets rivulets dribble off the porcelain surface. Then she hands it over to Mr. Mustang and his awaiting towel. “My father burned them.”

His hand seizes the plate and does not release. “What? Why?”

Since he doesn’t let go, she does instead. Her eyes are carefully lowered as she reaches for the next plate. “He didn’t want to leave anything for the military to find.”

To this, he grows quiet. Mr. Mustang knows, firsthand, of Berthold Hawkeye’s disgust towards the military. He knows because it was in the winter months, two years prior, that her father excommunicated him, promptly slammed the door in his face, and left him out in the cold snowy night. She sees a question in those eye, but he leaves it unvoiced, which is perhaps for the best. Instead, he takes up the dishrag again and begins swiping moisture away.

“Does that include his research?”

The dish squeaks beneath the sponge. Of course he would bring it up. Of course. Berthold Hawkeye, the man who wished to set the world aflame, but eventually allowed himself to grow burned by his own hubris until it left him as a pile of cinders and ashes shaped like a person. Mr. Mustang had often expressed interest in flame alchemy, only to be denied each and every time. Her child self had been sympathetic, but also elated that her father’s secret remained so far out of a stranger’s grasp.

In the present, Riza looks down at the sudsy water. It’s warm as it laps at her wrists. She thinks her hands might be pruned and cracked. “ _Especially_ his research.”

There are probably a million questions in his mind, but he only asks the one. “So nothing remains of it?”

“No.” Riza has to resist the urge to roll her shoulders. An itch settles along the length of her spine, tracing the lines and curls of ink. She scrubs harder. “Nothing.”

* * *

_~1910_

Two days after her initial visit, Riza returns to the house and knocks on the door, this time donning only a turtleneck and cargo pants. Behind her, Mustang has dressed in a collared shirt and casual slacks. Their uniforms have been abandoned in the inn’s room, the door left unlocked because she had been too anxious to see the boys again to pay it much mind. Besides, they had few possessions, and no one in their right mind would steal a military uniform. Especially not in a place so close to the war that ravaged an entire people. The only two things she values—her State-certified pocket watch and her alchemy gloves—are kept on her person, shoved so deep into her pocket that no one can catch a glimpse.

(It is telling that those two things are her most valuable possessions)

The door is answered by the grandmother (who Riza has learned, from overhearing the restless murmurs of the townsfolk, is named Pinako). It is evident from the confusion on the woman’s face that she does not recognize Riza at first. This does not surprise Riza, because she has often been reduced to a uniform, and has simply grown used to it. The familiar hint of disdain returns once the woman recognizes them.

“So you came back.” Behind Miss Pinako, Riza hears voices drifting from the interior. She catches a metallic gleam and the pitter-patter of light footsteps.

“I said I would.” She hopes that her lack of uniform conveys her point—she is not here on military business. This follow-up is not official in any way. “May I come in?”

A clatter sounds from behind, punctuated by flagrant cursing. Miss Pinako glances briefly over her shoulder, evidently sees something that displeases her, and turns back to Riza. “We just started setting up for lunch.”

And because she is a guest, because she is a stranger and an invader of this dark, tragic secret that no military officer should be privy to, she bows her head. “Of course. I can come back at a later time.”

“If you could,” says Miss Pinako. Which means, _Leave and don’t come back, military-dog._

More movement. The creak of wheels. A voice too young for the biting gruffness in it. “Is that lady officer back?”

Miss Pinako glances back over her shoulder. The pipe is in her mouth but not smoking. “She was just leaving.”

“No, send her in,” says the voice. It scarcely finishes speaking before hushed protests rise up to fill the silence. “I just wanna get this over with!”

That, Riza determines, must be Edward. Miss Pinako sighs and pushes the door open a little further. “Alright then, Miss Hawkeye. Come on in.”

No one has called her “Miss Hawkeye” since before she registered her name in the State Alchemy program, just-turned-seventeen and lying about her age, hopeful for a future that would never come to pass. Marveling at the irony of it, she thanks Miss Pinako as politely as she can while she steps into the house. Mustang follows behind her, ever the shadow.

It was indeed Edward who spoke. He’s no longer lying like a broken doll in bed, but instead slumped in a wheelchair that, given his posturing and the way he steadfastly avoids her gaze, he despises vehemently. The right sleeve of his shirt and the left pantleg flutter limply, making the absence of his limbs all the more prominent. George Rochenbeck is knelt over him, a comforting hand resting on the boy’s shoulder and murmuring something that is probably meant to be reassuring but instead has the opposite effect, if Edward’s scowl is any indication. Off to the side, Alphonse hovers awkwardly, uncertain what to do with his ungainly bulk. A young girl flutters nearby, the wispiness of her blonde ponytail contrasting to the graveness of her eyes. She has a broom in one hand.

Porcelain shards litter the floor.

The girl passes the broom to her father. George thanks her, casts Riza a look of warning, then disappears, apparently in search of a dustpan. Edward eyes are still carefully lowered. Miss Pinako closes the door behind her.

For a moment, nobody speaks.

George returns with a dustpan and begins sweeping up the shards. “My wife is on call, right now,” he says to the silence.

“I see,” Riza says blankly.

Time drags on. Or maybe she just imagines it to feel as though it’s dragging on. Shadows distill in the boy’s eyes and the world around her grows steadily blurrier. The house changes into a dimly lit motel room, cramped, the walls pressing in as she clicks the safety off the gun in her hands—

Mustang murmurs something about giving them some privacy. Miss Pinako sniffs, but she ultimately consents, removing her pipe and answering that he can help her search for the dog. They depart. The girl sends Riza a particularly stern look before darting off somewhere else. Only George, Alphonse, and Edward remain.

Then Edward shifts, peering up at her through the golden veil of his bangs. “How come you haven’t arrested us yet?”

From the look George sends him, he is probably thinking the same. Riza folds her hands behind her back. “Because I am the type of person to reserve my judgement until I know all the facts.”

He snorts loudly. Alphonse shoots his brother a worried look. “And when you know all the facts? You gonna arrest us then?”

Absolutely not. But she can see George watching her with wary, distrustful eyes, so she keeps this to herself. He’d think her a liar if she didn’t. Instead, she says, “Why don’t you tell me what happened.”

For a few moments, Edward holds her gaze. Despite the exhaustion and weariness that reminds her of men returned from war, there is defiance there. His eyes capture her reflection, and she feels as though she’s been immortalized in a piece of ancient amber.

All too suddenly, he looks away.

His explanation is very similar to Alphonse’s. It’s stilted, and he doesn’t stutter or stumble over his words the way his brother did, so it gives the impression that the entire thing is carefully rehearsed. She chooses not to comment on it, instead focusing her efforts on listening and considering. It isn’t until he reaches the part where the transmutation goes wrong that he pauses with a sudden uncertainty.

“And then what?” she prompts, trying to keep her tone gentle.

His single hand curls into a fist, eyes averted away from her face. Instead, he chooses to look over her shoulder. “It all just happened so fast. I don’t remember a lot.”

She nods wordlessly. _He’s lying._

“The next thing I knew, my leg was gone and Al was gone and—” He stops, suddenly, and she can see the fresh grief flash across his face once more. It’s only been a few days—the pain is still fresh. The trembling heart inside of her twists wretchedly at having to make him recount something so horrifying. The officer in her steels her nerves further. “I just grabbed the armor and... well, you know the rest, I guess.”

To prove his point, he makes a straining movement with his right shoulder, his tone growing a touch bitter towards the end. She tries not to wince.

“How did you know to do that?” He sends her a strikingly fierce glare. It startles her a bit and she amends herself. “I mean, where did you learn about soul transmutation?”

Again, his eyes dart away from her face. “I—I don’t remember.”

Well, it’s official now. He is deliberately withholding information from her. “And your arm? I know you said you traded it, but how, exactly, did that occur?”

“W-What do you mean?” A foreign nervousness flickers across his face.

Alphonse creaks as he leans in a little. “Um, Miss Colonel?”

She sends him a reassuring look before returning to his brother. “I’m just trying to make sense of it, is all. Your brother’s body was gone, but his soul clearly wasn’t. It was, in a sense, ready material for you to work with—at least, that’s the impression you’ve given me. So I don’t quite understand how a ‘trade’ took place.”

Edward draws in on himself, his nervousness replaced by something guarded, eyes unwilling to linger in her direction. “Look, that’s what happened, okay? That’s _it_. End of story.”

It’s not. There’s more he’s unwilling to share with her, for whatever reason, but that’s fair, she supposes. Riza is a stranger, a State Alchemist no less. She is a dog of the military and he has every right to distrust her, even discounting the trauma of this event. While the alchemist in her wilts at being kept in the dark, the officer in her only bows her head. “Very well.”

The timing is impeccable. At that moment, Mustang re-emerges with Miss Pinako at his side, and the animosity from before has shifted into something that is not quite so prickly. Riza hesitates to call it amicable or anything remotely close to such, but there is definitely a component of understanding that makes the old woman less inclined to distrust, and Mustang less inclined to discomfort. Behind them, the girl—Win-something—trails awkwardly, too busy lavishing affections onto the dog to pay too much attention towards walking.

“Lieutenant.” At the sound of her voice, Mustang snaps to attention. She paces over to the kitchen, highly aware that everyone’s eyes are on her. “Please make a note: when we arrived in Risembool, we discovered that our information was grievously incorrect in regards to the boys’ ages. We were delayed a couple days due to an issue with the train engine that left us stranded. After it was repaired, we left immediately.”

Riza does not need to look to know that everyone is exchanging looks of surprise and befuddlement with one another. Here is a military officer, an agent of a callous government that carried out an entire genocide of the very people they were supposed to protect, and she is being merciful. Mercy, she supposes, is not associated with blue and gold. Hasn’t been for a very long time.

“In short, our trip to Risembool yielded _nothing of note_.”

“Of course, sir,” Mustang says, ever-dutiful, with a slight dip of his head.

But George is unconvinced. He crosses his arms and sends her a dubious look. “You think people are going to buy that you just came to town and then, what, decided to leave on a whim?”

“People don’t have to think anything,” responds Mustang smoothly. He detaches himself from Miss Pinako’s side and makes his way over to Riza’s, tugging surreptitiously at the end of his left glove. Riza wonders if he’s even conscious of it. “It’ll go on the private military record, same as all other reports on missions and the research that State Alchemists sell their souls for. The public doesn’t have access. And no one in the military will bat an eye at an officer refusing to recruit two children. The army is no place for little kids, after all.”

George looks even more put off by this explanation. He clearly wasn’t expecting the lieutenant to be so thorough and familiar with the circumstances of falsifying records. Biting the inside of his cheek, he turns to Riza. “And you’re okay falsifying official military records?”

Rather than answer, she only blinks at him. He, of all people, should be aware this is not the first time she’s lied to her superiors.

“...right.” A little smile slices its way across his face, disbelief mixed by a hint something sharper. She sees shadows of Ishval on his face, too. “Stupid question.”

She chooses to ignore that. Instead, she turns her head to address the boys. Edward is staring at her with the same wary dubiousness as George, but Alphonse looks relieved, perhaps a tad grateful. Riza allows herself to take some solace in that.

“Don’t get us wrong—you’re not out of the woods yet. You two are prominent enough to find yourselves on the military’s radar. Once you two are of age—or perhaps sooner—more recruiters will come.” She makes towards the door with the intent to let herself out. She’s getting the feeling that she’s lingered too long, that whatever good graces she had been afforded are starting to evaporate. “It should give you plenty of time to conceive of a cover story until then.”

“Cover story?” It’s the harshness of Edward’s voice that causes Riza’s hand to pause on the door handle.

A dark look meets her as she glances over her shoulder at him. His eyes are far too old, far too empty. He hasn’t killed anyone, hasn’t wet his hands with the blood of children or innocents, but he has the same look of everyone she knows who has. Very carefully, she removes her hand from the doorknob. “Do you plan to tell everyone you lost your limbs committing the ultimate taboo?”

The venom he levels her with is the kind born from a crushing sense of hopelessness. It reminds her of six bullets in the magazine of a Browning Hi Power. “No.”

“Then you’ll have to come up with an alternative.” Mustang is sending her a curious look from where he lingers behind her, ever the shadow. She inclines her head subtly in Edward’s direction, brows rising, as she once again grabs the handle. “Such as the recent bombing of the train station or something like that. Your choice.”

His expression changes so sharply and suddenly that she would have missed if she’d blinked. He straightens in his seat, as though trying to tower her despite the fact that absence of his limbs has effectively decreased his overall mass, made him even smaller. A sort of broken viciousness settles into the amber shards of his eyes, his face scrunching into something feral and borderline malicious. “Our _choice_?”

Her hand tightens around the handle. With a creak, the door opens slightly.

“What part of this is _our_ _choice_?” He all but spits the words out. Everyone within his vicinity recoils at the acidity of them. The girl grips her dog’s fur tightly. George and Miss Pinako exchange a worried look. Alphonse looks like he can’t decide whether he wants to back away or get closer. “Our fucking _choice_? I’m missing half my limbs! My brother is a suit of armor! What part of this is _our choice_?!”

As the volume increases, as does the vehemence of it. Alphonse draws back as though ashamed of himself for having been configured into such a form. George makes like he wants to touch a hand to the boy’s shoulder, but at the last minute, jabs his hand in his pocket. The girl looks a hair away from bursting into tears, to which Miss Pinako takes her hand and gives it a firm squeeze.

“Ed,” the girl chokes.

_A cheap hotel that smells of mold and mildew, air stale but she refuses to open the window. The scent of smoke and burning flesh clinging to her hair and skin (she couldn’t scrub it out). Her uniform discarded on the floor in a rumpled, graceless heap—her only note. The cold metal kiss beneath her chin._

_Click off the safety. Heartbeat in her ears._

_Then **his** voice, soft but firm, like a velvet-swathed blade sliding sweetly slow between your ribs. “If you end it now, Hawkeye, then what was the whole point of living in the first place?”_

“What fucking _choice_ do we have?!” he all but shrieks.

“A _very simple one_.”

Edward stops and blinks at her.

“Your choice,” she snaps, hands trembling faintly, and she feels the ghostly brush of someone else’s hands, firm and calloused, gently teasing the gun from her fingers, “is whether or not to spend the rest of your life in that chair, wallowing in your own self-pity and despair, or to _stand up again_ and try to _fix_ _it_.”

_“What will you be able to do if you’re dead?” he demands with flinty eyes. His hands grip her wrists hard, because he knows that she will probably go for the gun again, if she is given the chance. “A corpse can’t repent, Hawkeye.”_

_“Let me go,” she begs. Sobs wrack her body and tears drip off the end of her jaw like rain. She is not a pretty crier, not by any means, but her skull is too full of fire and screaming to care. “I can’t do it anymore. I **can’t**.”_

_“You can.” He squeezes her hands—hands that have massacred hundreds of thousands—firmly and without hesitation. “You’re stronger than this.”_

“It is not our mistakes that define us.” Riza Hawkeye meets his eyes without any hesitation, and she almost swears he flinches back, as though ashamed to be the center of her attention, as though he is unworthy of it in some way. “It’s how we _answer_ them.”

Then she whirls around. Outside, the expanse of the countryside rolls out, bright and promising and beautiful in a way only its simplicity can be. Free from the sorrows of war, the weight of death, the pain of regret. What a joy it would be, to live a simple life in a simple place like this.

_But we have to make due with the life we have, and forge ahead with our heads held high._

“We’re leaving, lieutenant.”

“Yes sir,” Mustang says. He closes the door as they depart.

* * *

Riza looks out the window as Risembool recedes further and further into the green distance. The sun is shining a tad too brightly for her liking, but at least the clouds drifting lazily across the vast blueness have a chance at casting the world in shadow. She pretends not to notice the way Mustang is peering at her from across the seat with that signature quiet intensity of his, the steady burn of his dark eyes not scathing but rather soft, like the smudge of charcoal on a careless artist’s fingers. The woolen collar of her uniform itches against her neck, but she makes no move to adjust it. Whoever is in charge has not yet realized that heat collects within the car so as to warrant air-conditioning in the first place, so it has not been turned on. Beads of perspiration have gathered on Riza’s brow, dripping into her eyes.

“You think I was too harsh with him,” she says. It’s not a question. A transparent ghost of her reflection peers back at her, stone-faced and stoic. Does she really look so uncaring? My, no wonder people flinch away at her gaze.

The rustle of fabric indicates that he has folded one leg over the other. A sidelong glance confirms that his jacket is popped open and hanging limp over his shoulders, arms spread across the back of the seat. “Actually, I think you were just harsh enough, sir.”

Her eyes flutter closed. Beneath her eyelids, smoke curls from distant fires on the horizon. “Was I?”

“They needed a push in the right direction,” he says, not unkindly. She bets his guns are exposed, bets he would alarm passengers if there were any. “Sometimes, when our lives are stagnant, we need someone to help us get started again. Don’t you think?”

It’s Roy Mustang, so of _course_ he’s not above subtly referencing the time he found her loading bullets into her gun long after the need for it had ended. “Maybe.”

Hopefully her words managed to strike true, managed to pierce the thick fog of depression and failure. Even the smallest of punctures could allow light to spill through, bright and burning. And a little light was never remiss when you were fumblingly blindly around in the dark, expecting no one and nothing to reach back for you, expecting to sink deep into the shadows and never resurface.

Yes, there had been a spark there. There almost always was. Because even when you’ve crashed against rock bottom so hard that you shatter on impact, some intrinsic part of you refuses to break. The human spirit, after all, is an instinctively resilient thing.

“Do you think they’ll be alright?” There’s a touch of something wistful in Mustang’s tone. “Do you think they’ll find a way to undo it?”

“Who knows,” she says. Her eyelids slowly flutter open. The pastel color of the countryside burns after having her eyes closed for so long. “Maybe, maybe not. Hell. We might never know.”

Cue the insufferable smirk (she doesn’t need to see it to know it’s there—it’s _always_ there). “You make it sound like we’ll never see them again.”

“It’s a big country.” She settles her cheek against the knuckles of her fist, then turns to glance at him. He has a brow arched in an inquisitive manner, but there is a gentleness to his gaze that settles some of the restlessness in her. “What are the chances we’ll _ever_ run into those two again?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is my pleasure to introduce you to our second roleswap, Hawkeye and Mustang. I know this is very popularly featured in fanart and some fics, but it's still a very intriguing concept, so here we are.
> 
> I had _so_ much fun writing in Riza's perspective and I am absolutely thrilled with how this came out. This is my favorite chapter so far. (Also, kudos to NonbinaryFaerie for being the first to pick up on my little hints in Chapters 1 and 4!)
> 
> So for those of you who were wondering how the Rockbells are still alive, well... this is sort of it. It's a butterfly effect.
> 
> Once again, questions are welcome. As are constructive criticisms! Don't be afraid to point out any inconsistencies or flaws or anything that needs editing.
> 
> Sincerely yours,  
> The Immortal Moon


	9. Long Road Ahead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winry Rockbell is nine and witnesses her best friends fall apart.

_“‘Cause all of this is all that I can take_  
_And you could never understand the demons that I face_  
_So go ahead and bat your eyes and lie right to the world_  
_For with everything you are, you're just a little girl”_  
—Trading Yesterday, “Just a Little Girl”

 

There is a difference, Winry thinks, between young children and older children.

Somewhere in the early fold of the six years, the world is new and ever-mysterious. Every little thing is strange and exciting and scary all at once. There are some infinite concepts that are so far beyond your comprehension that you never give them a second thought—until they rudely insert themselves into your life.

She is six. Her parents depart for the warfront with a promise to return. She is too young to understand that sometimes, the promises of man falter in the face of something so massive as the world. To her, a mother and a father _are_ the world, are the same size as the world, if not greater. The idea of failure to uphold this vow never crosses her mind. When she cries, it is only because she will miss them and mourn the brief period for which they will be apart.

She is eight. Loss, something so profound that even adults struggle to grapple with it, settles heavy on her shoulders when the telegram arrives. If she were older, perhaps it would not seem so monumental, and she would be able to accept that even unjust deaths are simply the world running its course. But she is not, so she is left helplessly afraid and unable to understand, the fear gripping her so utterly that it hurts to breathe. Her own pain and grief and longing blot out the memory of the funeral. It transitions into something sharp and corrosive when anyone tries to get too close. She grudgingly allows Granny’s attempts to comfort her, despite the frustration of knowing that it will never be the same. Those first few months are filled with her own anguish and the obsessive perpetuation of it.

She is eight. Her parents return from the ashes like mythical phoenixes. She cries freely but it is not from grief. The dark spaces of her insides are immediately illuminated by warmth and love and everything she thought she would never feel again. After stumbling around in the shadows for so long, the light is blinding, and she looks back at her own actions with shame and the maturity that is afforded by the bereaved, the young who had to grow old so suddenly. How awful she must have been to Ed and Al, who were only attempting to comfort her by bringing her transmuted toys and coming over constantly to check upon her. She even apologies to them, but they take it in stride, acting as though she were not cruel to them, as though she had not taken out her pain on them for something that was entirely not their fault.

She is nine. Grief has reasserted itself in her life, driven a wedge deep into the shared existence of her and her neighbors-like-brothers. This time the world has stolen away a man who was like an uncle to her. A man she has admired for as long as she can remember, who comes back from trips outside town with mechanic bobbles and tools as presents, who comforted her when her house felt too lonely. She merely blinks and then he is gone, gone before she can even process the fact that he was fading. This time, the loss is familiar, and she is able to process it with far more grace than she did before.

She is nine. Somewhere around eight, you lose a little bit of your innocence and the world loses a bit of its mystery. By nine, it’s gone entirely. The world becomes something you are gradually more familiar with. Suddenly concepts that once seemed so vast and impossible, like death and loss, settle upon your shoulders with an uncomfortable but bearable weight.

Winry Rockbell is nine and witnesses her best friends fall apart.

* * *

_~1908_

Al cries, the way she did when she got the telegram and learned what genuine anguish feels like. Ed doesn’t—instead he folds up in on himself, becomes glass-eyed and empty and that perhaps terrifies her more than the sight of Uncle Van’s body. They put up walls the way she did, block her out, block Granny out, block Mom and Dad out.

The worst part is that she completely understands.

She is granted entry back into their lives by the alchemy book Al leaves in her house. Gradually, she manages to coax Ed back out of his shell, even if he is still standoffish and distant (not the prickliness from before, but a more unnerving stiltedness that feels like someone dismantled him and couldn’t put him back together correctly). Al is conspicuously absent for a while before inexplicably reappearing. Their talk of circles and symbols is difficult to understand at times, but it makes them smile tentatively and the light fleetingly returns to their eyes. Even if she cannot keep up with the rigor of their passion, she knuckles down and endures, because she is Rockbell woman, strong and proud, and she is nothing if not resilient.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” her mother notes. Something about her parents is stiff now, and not just from the recent loss of a good family friend. Winry noticed it before, how they moved as though not familiar with the house anymore. It worries her, but they are adults, and adults can fix their own problems. “Are you learning a lot?”

“Uh huh!” Her head feels stuffed full of new information and it would be a lie to say that there aren’t some parts of alchemy that fascinate her. Ed and Al can “transmute” things into something else entirely. She still has the doll they made for her four years ago. “It’s kinda fun, too!”

But mostly, it is to remind them that their world isn’t entirely empty, even if part of it is missing. Of course you feel the absence of someone when they die. That’s why it’s called “loss”.

A few months pass. The reclusive behavior of the Hohenheim brothers has lessened considerably, to the point where she deems that they no longer require her outstretched hand to rise back to their feet. Ed seems disappointed when she announces that, as much as she likes alchemy, she’s going to dedicate her life to automail instead, as she originally intended. On the other hand, Al is understanding, and soon they are both shrugging it off. Her work, she thinks proudly, is done.

(she has never been more wrong)

* * *

_~1909_

More time goes by. Ed and Al declare, quite suddenly, their intent to study under a lady alchemist they met in Dublith, much to the bewilderment of the Rockbell family.

“Dad would want us to continue our studies,” Ed points out stridently, to which Al bobs his head in agreement.

They speak highly of the woman in question, but Mom is still undeniably suspicious. She ultimately accompanies them on the trip to Dublith, makes a few calls from a place called “Curtis Butcher Shop”, then returns alone with an exasperated sigh and a shake of his head in regards to the brothers.

“They’re stubborn mules, just like their father,” she says with a helpless little laugh. “Thankfully, Mrs. Curtis is just the sort of no-nonsense woman to handle them. I think they’ll all get along just fine.”

Time passes strangely with the boys absent. It transitions from agonizingly slow stretches to patches that are so slippery they are gone before she can so much as blink. She pours herself into automail in an attempt to subvert this, but it only makes the vacancy all the more prominent. There aren’t even the cats anymore to look after and preoccupy herself over, even if they did stare at her with beady, unnerving eyes.

In the winter months, they return and regale her with stories about Dublith, about the oppressive heat of the South State, about how their teacher is, and quote, “a crazy psychotic woman who seems intent on killing them”.

“Is she really that bad?” Granny inquires, just a touch concerned.

“She’s pretty strict,” Al offers sheepishly. Talk of Mrs. Curtis inspires a sort of trepidation in him that is vastly different from his usual reserved nature, whereas Ed just starts ranting about crazy hags and training from hell. “But she’s a really good teacher and we’re learning a lot from her!”

The change is noticeable, Winry finds herself realizing. An unusual maturity has started residency in them, their eyes harder and sterner, as though the soft outer shell of childhood has been abruptly torn away. She is the same age as them, and like them has stopped thinking of the world as some vast, terrifying unknown—but there is something that marks a difference between them, a distinction she does not yet know or understand. They have begun to hold themselves in a different manner, begun to move differently. They still bicker and break out into brawls, the way brothers do, but their graceless tumbles transition into smooth, practiced movements.

Ed chimes that it’s part of the regiment, that their teacher believes in training the body alongside the mind, and laughs that they have the bruises to prove it.

In all honesty, Winry is not entirely sure how she feels about her friends learning how to fight with such brutal efficiency.

Once spring rolls back around, they smile apologetically before hopping on the next train back to Dublith. It reminds her of the times that Uncle Van took them on trips around the East State (it feels like an eternity ago), though for some reason she finds more sorrow in this parting.

She thinks of all the trips their family takes, all the times she was left alone in Risembool to tend to the cats in their absence. Lonely days spent without the easy, conversant laughter of her two best friends. This time the absence is longer, stretching out for months and months and months. This is a loneliness she is both familiar with and simultaneously unknown to her.

When they return again, it’s midsummer and right in the middle of a sweltering heatwave. There are more changes about them that she tries not to balk at—their alchemy being just one of them. They assure her that their return is permanent now, but it doesn’t matter. The damage has been done.

By then, Winry has learned how loathe she is to being left behind.

* * *

_~1910_

When she is nearly eleven and finished with her latest set of designs, she goes over to the Hohenheim house. Ed and Al are recently returned from Dublith and are out at the market right now, leaving their home temporarily vacant. Winry, now finding some free time to herself, decides to do something nice for them—lessen their workload a little—by reorganizing things and tidying up a bit. Besides, if she is still there when they return, perhaps they’ll strike up a conversation. It has been a while since they last spoke, genuinely and deeply.

Since returning, the brothers have huddled themselves almost desperately within the study of their home, pouring over their books with a determination Winry can’t comprehend. They talk about their research in a slightly reverent tone, as though it were much more than simply writing on pages. It worries her a little, how fanatical they’ve grown. And that’s not even considering the strange purchases they’ve been making all over town.

“Say, Winry, you wouldn’t happen to know what your friends are doing with the saltpeter they bought from my store, would you?” asked nosy Mrs. Patterson, owner of a small gardening shop, as Winry was returning from school. She shook her head, and thought nothing of it.

Until she also learned from Mr. Willard that they also bought a large clutch of eggs, too, which made him inquire suspiciously if she knew anything about any nefarious plans they might be cooking up. It wouldn’t necessarily be outside of Ed’s nature to concoct something devious (he used to do it all the time, but ah—“use to”, the two saddest words in the world), but he also wasn’t the type to waste food. She replied that she didn’t know of anything, but she'd looked into it.

Even stranger was Mr. Truman, owner of a hardware store, inquiring about what sort of alchemy experiments made use of lime. “Ed and Al bought a whole heap of it just yesterday!” he explained to her confusion.

“Really?” When he nodded, she frowned. “How much?”

“About a kilo and half, if I remember right.”

Then there was Miss Parker, who mentioned that the boys had taken seven five-liter kegs of water off her hands over the week. She thought there might be a problem with their plumbing, but Winry had heard no such thing. She inquired a little more to learn that they’d procured an eclectic mix of items from the town’s general store, including a couple hundred grams of salt and a sulfur-based dog shampoo, for some odd reason. At the hardware store, they’d acquired charcoal briquettes and quite a few iron nuts and bolts, like the kind Granny usually bought. They’d also bought bleach and a few other bits and bobs that didn’t many any sense.  Even odder was the fact that they’d brought home a whole host of things accrued from an apothecary that was apparently on their way back—a box of fluorine powder, spirits of ammonia, scraps of copper, and a few coils of pure silicon.

It’s puzzling, to say the least, and Winry has every intent of inquiring about it. The real problem is catching either Ed or Al when they aren’t running around frantically or have their heads buried so deep in their books that the rest of the world vanishes. Hence her coming over.

The study door has been left partially open, which puzzles her. Usually, Ed locks it up tight and makes it very clear that to go inside is an unforgivable act of some kind. She complained of to Al, expecting him to agree, but he only shrugged and said it can’t be helped.

There is no light on. Nonetheless, it beckons.

She glides up the stairs and coaxes the door open. Immediately, she is met immediately by a huge mess of books and papers that look as though they’ve slid off from the desk to form a bookalanche. A kerosene lamp has been left unattended, the glass dimmed and the flame unlit, but it has been left dangerously close to the pages. Pencils have rolled carelessly across the floor, and a few broken sticks of chalk have been abandoned on the nearest desk. Two inkwells have been left out, only one of them capped while the other is completely empty and tipped on its side, so that the contents would spill out everywhere if any had remained. In the corner, there’s one suit of armor that feels like it’s staring at her, like it’ll come alive at any moment just to chase her out.

At its feet, all the things they bought, or at least some form of them, have been rounded up in a wash basin. She recognizes the yellow powder in one jar as sulfur, which must mean the other jars and volumeric flasks must also contain distilled elements. The things they bought were merely household variants of common chemicals, carefully measured and sealed into jars and bottles, labelled with the atomic abbreviation and amount.

“What have you idiots been _doing_ in here?” she mutters to herself, but no one is there to answer. She takes a step forward and accidentally crushes paper beneath her shoe.

Stepping back, she finds that the book—if it could be call that—she stepped on is handwritten, a mere binding of parchment without a proper cover. It has been left open, and her foot has left an unfortunate crease on the page. Wincing, she picks it up and attempts to smooth it out.

Dark ink glitters at her from the pages. Half of it is in Ed’s stilted hand, the other in Al’s careful cursive. Research notes. She finds herself reading before she even realizes it, and then she is suddenly no longer smoothing out the page, but flipping it.

Pieces begin to connect. The ingredients. The medical texts they borrowed. The obsessive reading habits. The teacher.

It all makes sense, suddenly.

“ _Winry_?”

Nearly jumping out of her skin, Winry whirls around and is met by Ed and Al both standing in the doorframe. Jaw slack and eyes round, Ed’s expression is undergoing a battle between protective fury and dawning horror. By contrast, Al has no conflict about the situation, only staring at her with barely-concealed trepidation.

Ed is quick to put a façade of indignance. He crosses his arms and tries to glare like a grown-up. “What are you _doing_ in here?”

“ _Me_?” Winry feels dizzy, lightheaded. Like she’s been disconnected from the room. “What are _you_ doing with things like _this_?”

Her remark strikes true. Ed clenches his jaw, trying to hide the beginnings of panic that glimmers in his eyes. Gulping, Al tries to shrink back, as though it will somehow save him from scrutiny.

“It’s none of your business,” Ed retorts. His attempt to look fearsome only makes him look more fearful. Only then does she recognize the tiredness on his face, indicative of days without proper rest.

He reaches out to grab the book, but she steps back and clutches it close to her chest. The research is uncoded. She may not be a master alchemist, but she understands perfectly. “You guys’re going to try bringing back Uncle Van, aren’t you?”

Again, she strikes true. The little whine Al lets out sounds almost pleading. Ed’s jaw works with silent fury.

“Are you gonna tell?” he asks, as though that’s the only thing that matters. Not the fact that this is forbidden, or taboo, or he’s trying to literally _resurrect the dead_. In fact, she can see the gears turning in his head, calculating probabilities and variables, what it will take to keep this going even if she tries to stop them.

She’s not going to lie. That unnerves her a little.

Biting her lip, but trying not to be too obvious about it, she looks back at the pages. The beginner’s guide called this the ultimate taboo and was emphatic as it imparted the danger that lay in this act. Utter recklessness, unnecessary risk, no one has ever succeeded. (An Icarus with wax wings, reaching out for a sun that will melt them without hesitation—that was how the author put it, overly poetic though it was.)

A bolt of dark, poignant fury erupts in her, suddenly. They were going to do something so incredibly dangerous, so unbelievably stupid—and they weren’t even going to bother telling her!

They couldn’t bother to tell her that they were going to bring back someone she desperately missed. Couldn’t bother to tell her their intentions to defy heaven and earth just for someone they loved. Did they _really_ not trust her that much?

And it isn’t as though some part of her knows how instinctively _wrong_ this is. The dead aren’t supposed to come back—

But.

Neither were her parents, after she had received the telegram and the box of ashes that were supposedly them. But then they returned bearing new names and sunken eyes, yet mostly whole and intact and her family was reunited. Ed and Al didn’t have that, couldn’t have that.

Or could they?

Her grip on the book tightens. Even if the possibility exists—which is probably doesn’t!—this is risky and stupid and _boneheaded_. Un _believably_ boneheaded! Don’t they know that the more complex the equation, the worse the cost of rebound is? No, of course they know. _They_ taught her in the first place. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

To this, Ed falters. Instead, it’s Al who speaks, voice tentative. “Tell you?”

“Yeah. Tell me.” It’s a betrayal of a sort—no, _definitely_ a betrayal. She’d always thought they could tell each other anything. Had a wall risen up between them without her knowledge? “You guys could get _hurt_.”

“That won’t happen.” Al’s voice is sympathetic. He’s always been the kinder of the two, the less abrasive. “We’ve been working on the theory—Winry, it’s perfect. It’s not going to backfire.”

She looks up at him. His eyes shine with a faith that is sufficient to make any protest dry up. But she can’t also help noticing the exhaustion written heavily on his face. How much has he slept? Or has he been too busy nursing these thoughts, too busy dreaming in the real world, so that sleep has lost its allure? “You... you still should’ve told me.”

Ed only frowns at her. “Why?”

Why, he says! As though the answer weren’t obvious. “I would’ve _understood_.”

“No you wouldn’t,” Ed says, voice flat but not unkind. “Your parents came back.”

...that’s true.

But that doesn’t mean that Winry doesn’t know what loss is, that grief and mourning are phantoms that hover ever-present through your life, haunt you in your sleep and never let you rest but for the ache in your chest. She knows what it’s like to have your heart torn out and stomped on. Just because her father came back doesn’t mean she doesn’t know what it’s like to mourn his death.

“I would have,” she repeats softly. The book feels strange in her hands, unwieldy. Almost every reference to human transmutation is accompanied by a footnote marked “forbidden” and “dangerous”. (Icarus reaching out to grasp something too hot for mortal fingers.) If the peril of it isn’t enough to dissuade, then surely the realization that one is going against the very laws of nature should. Alchemy is, after all, nature—isn’t it?

Yet Ed and Al had not been deterred. And why would they be? They are clever even by alchemist standards. Uncle Van used to brag about how they would surely surpass him in leaps and bounds. She had seen with her own eyes their sparkling intellect, and while she is not discounting her own intelligence in any way, she knows that she doesn’t have the same drive to unravel this the way they have. The letters on the page are all shiny black ink, and she images what it was like when they were fresh and wet on the parchment, when their writers were pouring themselves into this with an ardency she can only imagine.

The book snaps closed. She all but shoves it at Ed. “It’s not gonna work. You’re both gonna kill yourselves.”

Something like rage flashes across Ed’s face, if only for a moment. “We won’t.”

“You will.” But the argument sounds weak.

“We’ve worked too hard to fail,” he says, as though he can will the science to bend to his will. (Icarus, oh dear Icarus.) “We’ll _bring him back_.”

There’s no echo, but it feels like there should be. Winry bites her lip. She doesn’t want to believe him. She doesn’t. Ed is thick-headed and stubborn, but even that can’t change the laws of nature.

It can’t.

But she has seen alchemy up close enough to know that it is a force of creation. And isn’t that what life is? Creation?

“I want to tell Dad,” she says. Uncle Van and Dad were thick as thieves, according to Granny’s multiple testaments. There’s an old photo album in the attic that features pictures of them growing up together, getting into trouble, being brothers in all but blood.

Then suddenly Ed’s hands come down on her shoulders so hard she jolts upright. His gaze fills her vision, stringent in its intensity. She’s always known his eyes were yellow—but she’d never understood the vibrancy of them. “You can’t!”

“But he’d want to know,” she insists. And he, of all people, would be the most eager to see Uncle Van—but as a grownup, he’d also be able to make a judgement call on this whole bringing-back-the-death thing. If _anyone_ can soothe the turmoil in her mind, the indecisive hovering, it’s him, surely.

“He’d just try to stop us.” It’s Al who says this, and even though the implications of it speak volumes, he looks frightfully unapologetic.

Anxiety curls through her. “Because you can’t do it.”

“We _can_ do it,” Ed promises. His grip on her shoulders is just a tad too tight, and his eyes burn with a startling conviction that almost has her believing him. But his face is gaunt and pale, bags under his reddened eyes. She wonders how many late nights he has spent, ruining his eyes by candlelight as he scribes theories and transmutation circles and nurses that deep ache of hope muddied by grief. “We can bring him back. But—But not if you tell anyone, Winry. They’ll just get in the way. So, just pretend you never saw anything. _Please_.”

Winry feels dizzy, uncertain. She knows what they can do, what they are capable of. Is it _actually_ possible?

She remembers when her parents came back. That, she thought, had been a miracle of some kind. So miracles must exist, in some capacity, surely. And maybe people can make them happen.

Silently, she looks at Ed, then at Al. They’ve put _so_ much thought and care and effort into this... And she _remembers_ the fresh well of grief during the funeral, _remembers_ Al locking himself in his room for days and Ed staring hollow-eyed at everything. She _remembers_ after her parents died, how Uncle Van came over and sat with her all night, not talking but only sitting there, silently, his presence a comfort she’d never known she needed.

Even she can’t deny the ache of longing.

“Okay,” she says.

Ed’s grip slackens a little. Al’s eyes widen in surprise, but a slow smile spreads across his face. “R-Really?”

A tentative smile twitches across her lips. “Yeah. I mean... I miss him too, you know?”

The grin that blooms across Ed’s is so wide she expects his face to snap in half. He releases her and draws back a little, eyes glittering with gratitude. “ _Thank you_.”

She nods mutely. The light in their eyes... If it were just love, just desperation, she might be more hesitant. But it’s more than that. It’s determination and perseverance and a grim resolve to restore what had been wrongfully lost. In a strange way, she admires it.

Maybe it isn’t so impossible, bringing back the dead. Equivalent Exchange, right? You get what you give.

(it’s actually obsession, that light—a sort of madness that grips you when you are your lowest point and refuses to let you move forward—and it isn’t until she is sobbing into her pillow and cursing her own stupidity that she will realize this)

* * *

Three days later, a storm sweeps through Risembool like a plague. Rain lashes the windowpanes and lightning flashes in the distance like fever dreams. The distant peels of thunder sound like terrible coughing fits.

Winry doesn’t sleep that night. A deep, visceral sort of discomfort has settled in her gut and refuses to let her rest. There’s something in the atmosphere—something other than the humidity and  the usual charge of electrons that spark lightning—that inspires her to toss and turn in bed. The air is stagnant, but charged, vibrating in place, rebelling against its own stillness.

The discomfort shifts into anxiety. For some reason, her mind keeps flashing back to Ed and Al.

She gives up on sleep ever coming and leaps out of bed.

Her parents are up late again. Since Ishval, it became less and less unusual to find one of them awake late at night. When Uncle Van was ill, it was more often Dad who she found in the wee hours, nursing a mug of coffee at the counter and worrying silently. Sometimes both of them would be awake, talking in hushed voices, conversing about adult things she couldn’t comprehend.

Tonight, it’s as though the whole house is awake. Warm light suffuses from the kitchen, and she can hear their voices drifting lazily through the still air. She can’t make out what they’re saying, but the voices sound specifically as though they belong to Granny and Mom, the tone tinted with something soft and solemn. She smells freshly brewed coffee, catches the subtle sound of movement—Dad, probably.

Tentatively, Winry pokes her head through the door. Mom has bags under her eyes as she converses with Granny, both of them sitting at the counter and their faces heavy. Winry catches the word “Ishval” here and there, but that’s about it, or maybe she just doesn’t want to hear the rest of it. In the kitchen, Dad is working furiously at the coffee grinder, despite the fact that a mug sits on the counter, waiting to be drunk. Sweet-smelling smoke curls from Granny’s pipe. At Mom’s feet, Den is curled up, metallic leg gleaming in the low light, her snout buried in her tail.

Perhaps the slippers do not muffle Winry’s footsteps as well as she thinks. Den’s ears perk up, and then she raises her head groggily. The action doesn’t go unnoticed by Mom, who follows Den’s gaze and spies Winry in the doorframe. “Winry, what on earth are you doing up?”

Granny and Dad both turn around to peer at her. A faint shadow clings to Dad’s jaw, which looks strangely out of place on his face. He’s the sort of person who likes to be clean-shaven, neat and precise and clinical. He sends Winry a lopsided smile. “Hey monkey. You can’t sleep either, huh?”

Winry shakes her head and trots into the kitchen. Distantly, thunder rolls across the hills and crashes against the rafters. Rain hammers against the roof in a disquietingly rhythmic thrumming. She tries to smile, but it feels false. “I think it’s the storm.”

“It’s more than that,” Granny huffs. “There’s something in the air—the sky’s rumbling with a premonition.”

A huffed laugh falls from Dad’s mouth as he snatches up his coffee mug. It’s long since grown cool. “Never took you for the superstitious type, Ma.”

“Not superstition, son of mine.” Granny sniffs and takes a long, slow drag of her pipe. Smoke fills the air as she exhales, and another peel of thunder echoes. The storm is getting closer. “But when you get old, you can _feel_ things in your bones.”

Den rises to her feet, suddenly—it’s the only warning they are given before a swift, thunderous clanking sounds from beyond the door. It makes Winry jump in alarm, her heart in her throat, before it is punctuated by a loud, insistent knocking. Her hands find the back of the nearest chair and grip it tightly, fingernails digging into the soft wood. The unease has returned, her nerves strung taught and being played like a violin.

Skepticism emerges on Dad’s face, along with a wariness that has him gripping the mug just a tad tighter. Granny’s spectacles hang low on her nose as she puffs smoke, looking no less cautious. Frowning and trying to muffle nerves with exasperation, Mom sends Dad a dubious look.

More knocking. It’s frantic, almost. Winry’s heartbeat speeds up.

Being nearest to the door, it’s Mom who ultimately gets up and walks over to the door. There’s something in the air. It thickens as Mom’s nightgown sways around her legs with each step. Winry thinks she could choke on it, if she opened her mouth and let it fill her lungs. Some sort of tension—if it could be called such. Maybe “anticipation” is a better word. Den lets out a whine, ears flat.

Time seems to falter and break down as Mom turns the handle. Perhaps that’s just how Winry’s memory paints it, or maybe it is simply a trick of her mind. With agonizing slowness, the door opens.

Lightning flashes and illuminates a silhouette of hard, menacing steel. Rain beats down relentlessly against the shell, making a deafening but hollow symphony of pounding, pounding, pounding against steel. Phantom scarlet light flickers inside the helmet, almost giving the impression of eyes.

It’s the armor from Uncle Van’s study, Winry will recognize belatedly. But right now she is too focused on the form clutched in those metal gauntlets—Ed, drenched and splattered in blood and far too pale and missing an arm and a leg each.

Mom nearly trips over her own feet as she stumbles back in alarm. There is a soft clack as Granny’s pipe falls out of her mouth. Dad’s face looses almost all its color, grip on the mug loosening so that it tilts and dark amber liquid dribbles over the white porcelain rim. Den barks, but it’s not so much angry as it is distressed.

“Please.” The stranger’s voice has an odd, echoing quality, slightly metallic and far too young. And familiar in a way that only unnerves Winry further. Ed is cradled delicately in those oversized arms—if you ignore the blood and the startling pallor of his complexion, he almost looks like he’s sleeping. “ _Help him_.”

“ _Shit_.” One moment Dad is in the kitchen, still clutching the coffee mug, and the next he’s swooping Ed’s unconscious form in his arms and saying something about preparing a bed.

Immediately, Mom scrambles after him, but halfway down the hall, she whirls around and changes directions, mumbling something about antiseptic and gauze. Winry catches only a glimpse of her expression, but it is an eclectic marriage of frantic, calculative, and desperate.

Then they are both gone, and the living room is suddenly much too quiet. Granny continues to stare the suit of armor, blinking rapidly and mouth still slightly ajar. Another whine leaves Den, and she trots over to Winry—her cold nose against Winry’s thigh makes her jump.

Without a word, the stranger shifts, the armor creaking. Their helmet nearly bangs the top of the doorframe as they reluctantly crawl in from the outside. Water traces rivulets across the glistening metal before pooling at the floor. Uncertainly, they pause another moment before closing the door behind them, but move slowly, as though their own movements are something foreign to them.

It’s the door closing that snaps Granny out of it. She hops out of the chair, picks up her pipe, and marches her way over to the stranger. “What happened to Ed?”

“I-I—” Winy didn’t think it was possible for a suit of armor to tremble, but this one does somehow. “We—I don’t _know_ —”

The voice, far too young and fraying at the ends, strikes her again. She _swears_ she knows it, even quivering and metallic and echoing. She _knows_ this person, who brought Ed here, bloody and barely breathing. And God, he might not even survive, might bleed to death on the bed as Mom and Dad work frantically to staunch it. That happened sometimes, with some of Granny’s patients. The thought of it has Winry blinking back fearful tears.

And if _Ed_ is in that condition, then who _knows_ what happened to—

...wait.

Horror floods her, ice-cold and unadulterated. She looks at the armor again, straight at the unnatural glow of those scarlet red lights. Outside, the rain crashes against the windows, _smack-smack-smack_ , far too loud in her ears.

“... _Al_?”

Lightning washes the kitchen in stark white light. Thunder booms.

Granny sends Winry an alarmed look, but the armor—Al—just shakes harder. Then she turns back to Al, sizing him up and down in utter disbelief, probably trying to figure out how little Alphonse Hohenheim could have spontaneously tripled in height (Winry would like to know, too). If her pipe wasn’t in her hand, Winry thinks she would have dropped it again. “ _Alphonse_?”

A beat of silence pans out before Al nods shakily.

“Well, what in the _devil_ are you _doing_ in there?” Granny demands. She doesn’t quite sound so much angry as she does frazzled, confused. The lack of comprehension _sounds_ like anger, though, and Al flinches back. “Get out of there this instant!”

If possible, Al shrinks. “I-I... Granny, I don’t... t-think I can...”

Rather than the statement itself, it’s the fear in Al’s voice that unnerves Winry further. He sounds close to tears, borderline hysteric. Den chooses that moment to remove herself from Winry’s side and pick her way over to Al, giving his foot a cautious sniff.

“What are you talking about?” Granny’s voice comes out snappishly, but it’s harshened by the hint of panic in her words.

Hands trembling, Al reaches for the side of the breastplate. He unhooks it slowly. The metal hinges creak as he opens it up.

Empty.

This time, Winry _does_ scream. Or, yelp, more like it. She jumps back, hand falling over her mouth to hold back the nausea churning in her stomach. She wants desperately to look away, but her body refuses her, keeps her eyes glued to the conspicuous lack of occupant.

Granny, meanwhile, curses. Loudly.

More silence passes. That tickly feeling of nausea, that lighter-than-air lump, rises to Winry’s throat. She wishes Al would close the armor back up, but he makes no move to do so.

Then, Granny seems to notice something. Brows knitting, she leans in a bit, peering up (the armor is tall, Granny is not) at the back of the cuirass. “...what’s that?”

Something about the way she says that makes a second lump form in Winry’s throat. It also causes Al to let out a panicked, “What’s what?”

“That there. In the back.” Granny squints, adjusting her spectacles—then abruptly draws back, eyes widening. “Is that _blood_?”

A high, strangled noise breaks in Winry’s throat. Den raises her head cautiously, ears perked.

“...oh my god.” Al turns away. With his profile to her and the breastplate swinging open, the emptiness is all the more prominent. Leather gloves clasps onto the helmet, like someone trying to bury their fingers in their hair. “ _Brother_ —”

“ _Alphonse Philip Hohenheim_.” Winry has only ever heard Granny’s voice tremble once, when they got the telegram and her words were too full of rage and grief to come out evenly. This time, it’s a fear that is all the more insidious. “You tell me what happened _right now_.”

Al sounds very close to hysteria as he says, “We tried to bring back Dad. But it _didn’t work_.”

* * *

Alchemy did this to them.

_Alchemy._

What a horrible thing.

* * *

A day and half passes. A blonde lady with short hair and a military uniform barges in, demanding to see the brothers. She is followed by a tall, dark-haired man with ink-colored eyes and a smooth way of speaking. Their names are Lieutenant Colonel Riza Hawkeye and Second Lieutenant Roy Mustang, Winry learns after Al recounts that horrible night and they leave with the promise of returning in two days. The former of the two is acquainted with Mom and Dad, to some extent.

“You could say she saved our lives,” Dad tells Winry, though he makes it sound like she did anything but.

Dad has grown to very much dislike the military since returning from Ishval. He calls them needlessly destructive, apathetic towards human life, and overall unworthy of the people’s trust. Particularly State Alchemists. They’ve sold their souls to become dogs.

“Oh hush,” Mom always says when he starts. “You’re going to scare the children.”

In hindsight, Winry notices that Mom never properly disagrees.

When Mom and Dad came back, they had to change their names. Winry never understood it, but she never found in it her to complain, not when they came back to her whole and intact. Now, though, she finds herself curious, because she is eleven and veering dangerously into the territory of adolescence, where one begins to question the world around them and gently peel off what remains of one’s naivete. But her questions are brushed off in favor of tending to Ed.

His stumps have long since stopped bleeding. Mom sewed them shut, and Dad wrapped them in thick white gauze. Granny changes the sheets and administers the painkillers so he can sleep more easily, without searing pain. Winry cleaned the blood from his hair and brings him food.

“I’m not hungry,” he says, always looking away, face turned towards the window. The color has returned to his face, but she still remembers how white he was, red blooming in his hair and clothes and splattered across his cheek.

Each time, Al goes in and says something. When Winry returns to collect the tray, his meal is halfheartedly eaten, but eaten nonetheless.

The day that the colonel is set to return, Mom helps Ed into a wheelchair so he can move around. Just one look at him and Winry knows he hates it. Utterly despises it. He can’t move the wheels himself so Al has to push him. Before Mom can say anything reassuring, a neighbor comes over and asks her to have a look at their daughter, who has contracted the flu. With an apology, Mom leaves, and Dad replaces her quickly.

They’re at the table, about to have lunch. Ed insists on helping set the table—because he’s stubborn and the words “take it easy” mean nothing to him. Den has disappeared somewhere, so Winry is focused on that, looking around and wondering where her dog could have possibly gone. Granny and Al are talking about something she doesn’t hear.

Dad has his back to Ed, holding out a plate and asking if Ed has it. Ed, leaning forward, responds that he does.

Time slows.

Winry watches as Dad releases the plate. It falls, nothing holding it. Ed’s face changes from casual to alarmed.

It shatters loudly against the ground.

Someone knocks at the door.

Granny huffs loudly as she marches over to it, mumbling something about intrusions. No one else seems to notice—Ed only blinks at it uncomprehendingly at the porcelain shards, hand clutching at the bandage-bound stump of his shoulder. Dad, who whirled around in alarm at the sound of the noise, drops to his knees to properly assess the damage. And Al... Al just sort of inches closer, but keeps his distance. His body is big and too strong and unfamiliar, and he moves around as though he’s expecting everything around him to break at his touch. He won’t even lay a comforting hand on Ed’s shoulder for fear of the crushing weight he could incite.

Colonel Hawkeye is at the door. It takes a moment for Winry to recognize her, because she’s wearing a black turtleneck instead of a blue uniform, but the sight of her still elicits a thrill of resentment. Winry’s grip on the broom handle lightens.

“Of course. I can come back at a later time,” she says. Winry wants to smack her with the broom.

At the sound of her voice, Ed perks up. He adjusts the wheel of the chair in an attempt to move forward, but it only causes it to turn slightly. “Is that lady officer back?”

Surprised, Granny glances at him over her shoulder. A wary wrinkle knits her brow. “She was just leaving.”

“No, send her in.”

“Brother—”

“Ed, you don’t have to—”

“I just wanna get this over with!” Ed snaps, and both Al and Dad fall silent. There is a hairline fracture of sorts in his eyes, and from those cracks something dark seeps out.

Winry, hands shaking, only silently hands the broom to Dad. He gets up and looks for a dustpan.

The colonel is invited inside. Behind her, the lieutenant, also dressed in casual attire, follows. Winry almost didn’t notice him—his presence doesn’t radiate imposition and intimidation the way the colonel’s does, the intensity in her cognac-colored eyes.

Nobody speaks. Dad returns to sweep up the mess, then mentions something about Mom being out. Den is still god-knows-where.

After a minute, the lieutenant turns to Granny and bends down a little. Voice low, he says, “Perhaps we should give them some privacy.”

Granny sniffs and pulls out a match to light her pipe. “Perhaps. You wouldn’t be willing to help me look for the dog, would you? She’s been missing for a few hours now.”

“It would be my pleasure,” says the lieutenant. He allows Granny to lead him off somewhere deeper into the house.

Ed and the colonel are still engaged in a staring contest of some kind. Winry decides that Dad and Al can look after him. But Granny—Granny is alone with someone in the military. As discreetly as she can, she slips out of the room.

She follows them into one of the back rooms—the workshop, to be precise. Another thrill of startingly dark anger goes through her. Isn’t it bad enough that these people barge into her house? Now they have invaded her workshop, her place of solace, the most personal and private room of her home. It’s unacceptable!

However, her intent to barge in and assert her dominance is stymied when she catches voices, murmurs that are simultaneously grim and conversational. She hears the lieutenant’s voice, light and airy and asking if the dog often wanders into the workshop. Granny responds with succinct, forced politeness with an edge of something that becomes much more prominent as she changes the subject.

“So are you planning to take those boys away or not?”

Something cold grabs Winry’s heart and freezes her in place. There it was—the words that had been circling in her head and chest for the last few days. Hearing them aloud, in Granny’s raspy voice, turns it from an inkling, a mere fearful conjuring of a child’s mind, into a terrifyingly real possibility. The weight of it presses hard against Winry’s lungs.

There is a decisive pause. Then, losing the affable smoothness, the lieutenant says, “There are no immediate plans to do so, no.”

“Oh?” It comes out in a particularly biting way that makes Winry wince. She inches a little closer to the doorframe and catches a glimpse of them both—the lieutenant is examining some of the half-completed arms hanging from wires, with his back to her immediate view. Granny is standing off to the side, her profile just visible, hands folded behind her back and pipe smoldering. “So what _are_ your immediate plans?”

“At the moment?” He sounds so noncommittal. It makes Winry’s gut clench in odd, ugly ways. “We just wanted to make sure they had survived.”

_...what?_

“Oh really?” Granny’s skepticism is biting. “You expect me to believe that you have those boys’ best interest at heart?”

Lieutenant Mustang’s hand reaches up to touch one of the arms. Winry watches with a strange fascination as his fingers brush the metal shell, traveling down, down, down until he is grasping the pinky finger of the artificial hand. She wonders if he’ll rip it free of the suspending wires—the military has already tried to take her parents from her, so why not? “What you believe is up to you. If you don’t believe that the colonel and I were immediately worried when we saw the array in their study, then I don’t suppose I can convince you otherwise. But even as a non-alchemist, I know human transmutation is dangerous. Frankly... I was concerned we wouldn’t find anything left of them.”

Winry takes a sudden step back, blinking. There’s a dry itch in the back of her eyes, her hands starting to shake the slightest bit.

_There might not have been anything left._

The realization hits her so suddenly that it knocks the breath out of her lungs. If she’d told Mom or Dad or Granny, this all might have prevented. They might have been able to stop Ed and Al. Ed would still be whole and not trapped in a wheelchair he clearly despises, glaring with eyes that are too narrow and jaded and fractured into pieces. Al wouldn’t be a cold, towering metal shell with nothing inside except a circle of blood seal Ed drew in a fever, wouldn’t be too strong and too afraid to touch anyone for fear of breaking them. They wouldn’t be like this—

If not for her. Because she kept the secret, and allowed it to happen.

( _Icarus flew too close to the sun but Daedalus is the one who provided the wings in the first place_ —)

“Human transmutation,” Granny scoffs. She swings around and starts pacing off to the side. Soon enough she is gone from Winry’s line of sight, save only for the indicative trail of sweet-smelling smoke. “To think alchemy could be so _horrible_...”

Wordlessly, the lieutenant releases the prosthetic. His own hands are gloved, pristinely white. He does not deny it.

She thinks back to when Ed and Al first transmuted the doll for her. The light had stunned her, she remembers. Fascinated her. But then the materials started to move around, and a face became visible—that had scared her, the wobbling mouth and the erratic shift of the buttons and the loud, electric snap of energy that she was convinced would he painful if they made contact. She’d wanted to scream but Mom had hugged her, murmured that it was alright, there was nothing to be afraid of.

How could there be nothing to be afraid of, when her friends had been torn to pieces by the very thing they loved? Had Uncle Van known the sort of sheer, unadulterated destruction that alchemy could wreak, or had he just not cared?

“I’m tempted to go over there and burn those books,” Granny announces suddenly. And the minute she does, Winry can suddenly envision herself standing over a pile of alchemy books with a match in hand. The phantom heat of the imagined flame is hot against her fingertips.

 _You destroyed my friends_ , she wants to scream. Alchemy. Alchemy had done this to them. And she’d _allowed_ it to.

But alchemy could not repent.

“That would be cruel, don’t you think?”

At the sound of the lieutenant’s voice, Winry’s head snaps up. He’s turned away from the row of arms, and is instead sweeping his dark eyes across her wooden worktable. She left out come tools—screwdrivers and ratchets and wrenches. He reaches out to touch one, and she bristles.

“You can’t just take away something they care about,” says the lieutenant. He picks up the biggest wrench and tests the weight of it. Winry wants to tear it from his gloved fingers. That wrench is _hers_. “They’ve lost enough, haven’t they?”

“They’ve lost so much _because_ of alchemy,” retorts Granny.

“Fair enough.” He turns around so that Winry can fully see his face. The lights in the workshop are the sort of strong, bright kinds that allow someone to work well into the night without having to squint. They cast a deep curtain of shadow on the side of his face furthest from her, and cause the metal of the wrench in his hand to glint sharply. “Say, this is a rather nice wrench.”

“What?” The tip of Granny’s nose comes into view, along with her smoking pipe. “Oh. Yes. That it is.”

“Rather weighty,” he goes on idly.

“What’s your point?”

The lieutenant turns back to the worktable, eyeing the array of tools. “A heavy tool like this? If you hit someone, I’d imagine you could cause a fair bit of pain. Maybe even split their skull open.”

Winry bristles further at that. Her tools are not weapons! They’re immaculate apparatuses that allow her to craft her glorious automail!

Granny, it seems, is not too fond of the insinuation either. “We wouldn’t though.”

“Whether you would or wouldn’t is irrelevant. What matters is that you _could_.” He sets the wrench down on the table and turns his attention back to Granny. “The potential exists that you could seriously harm someone with this tool. And yet, it can also be used to create the automail here, the prosthetics that allow people to become whole again.”

There is a long pause. Winry mulls this over. He’s right about the wrenches being heavy, being the sort of things that can hurt people. And not just the wrench—you could easily stab someone hard with a screwdriver or burn someone with a blowtorch. But just as deadly as they are, they help her craft the automail that, as the lieutenant said, helps people that are broken and seemingly beyond repair. These prosthetics allow people to stand after they’ve lost their legs and returns their missing arms to them. And the tools that help her create them—

“Are you trying to liken alchemy to my tools?” Granny’s voice is flat, unamused.

He tilts his head to one side. “Is it not a fair comparison? Alchemy can be a force of creation. It can allow people to mend things that are broken and to create new things from what already exists. But as you’ve seen, and in the case of those two boys, it can be very destructive if mishandled. But the fact remains that alchemy, no matter what it’s use, still has the potential to do either. It’s not a good force or a bad force, simply a tool.”

Dazed, Winry finds herself drawing back from the doorframe, pressing her back flat against the wall. Her knees feel strangely weak, and she thinks that if she removes herself from the wall then she’ll collapse to the ground.

_If alchemy is just a tool..._

She remembers Ed and Al showing her all the things they learned from Uncle Van. How to transmute metals, how to transform plants, how to fix things that were broken or how to make things new. She remembers when he’d come over and draw chalk circles on their roof, then restore it in a snap-crackle of transmutation. He’d fix things all over town, make little toys for her and the other children in town. Even fix up her tools, smooth out dents and erase rust and even sharpen or dull edges until they were just right.

_And it all depends on how you use it..._

After their first transmutation, Ed had presented the doll to her, all but shoving it in her arms while flushing bright red. “It’s kinda girly, so I figure you’d want it.”

It stunned her, at the time. “Don’t you wanna keep it? You and Al worked so hard to make it.”

Ed actually laughed a little at that. “Nah. What’s the point of transmuting somethin’ like this if nobody enjoys it?”

(if Icarus flew too low, they say, his wings would have captured the moisture of the sea-spray and become too heavy to fly)

“Nothing on its own is inherently malevolent or harmful,” the lieutenant goes on. Winry closes her eyes and lets his voice curl through her mind like smoke, like wax melting from ambitious wings. “It is only a matter of how it’s used.”

A sharp snort leaves Granny. “Even those guns you soldiers use to mow down people?”

Another pause. Tentatively, Winry opens her eyes.

“Especially the guns.” There’s a note of something rueful in the way he says that, as though he resents his own words but he muscles his way through them. She hears a soft click, and Granny inhales sharply. “When most people see a gun, they probably think of violence and death. And I can sympathize with that. In Ishval, I killed a great many people with this very device.”

Winry’s stomach fills with ice, then drops to her toes.

“But,” says the lieutenant, his tone growing determined, the way Ed’s does when he faced with a challenge that both irritates and thrills him, “that’s not all it is.”

“Oh?”

“When I look at this gun, I think about all the times I was able to protect my comrades. I was a sniper, you see, and my task was to sit in a very high tower and shoot people down from afar.” Winry takes this opportunity to peel herself off the wall and peer through the doorframe at him. Lieutenant Mustang has his head tilted subtly down, bangs hanging over his dark eyes. The shadows seem just a tad more prominent. In his hands, a gun is cradled with a delicacy that most would not afford such a deadly weapon with. “But through my scope, I could often see my comrades who were in danger, and I could shoot down the enemy that was endangering them. It was still death, granted, and the circumstances do not alleviate my guilt. But I could use this weapon to save my fellow soldiers. So even if it is a weapon, I can’t help but also see it as something that allows me to protect those I care about.”

And Winry... has no idea what to make of that, honestly. Her head is spinning.

A gun used to protect people. A soldier who cares about protecting people.

She watches the lieutenant sigh and sheath his gun somewhere she doesn’t see. Honestly, she hadn’t even noticed he’d been carrying one in the first place. There was a lot she hadn’t noticed about him.

He lets out a sudden dry chuckle. “I can tell that you don’t buy all this talk of protection.”

“Forgive me for being a tad skeptical,” Granny answers coolly.

“No, that’s fair. We soldiers have done some rather horrible things.” Another dry chuckle, this one a touch darker. He looks back at the row of mechanical arms. “To think I joined the military to protect people.”

Granny shuffles a little closer, enough for Winry to make out the faint shade of sympathy on her face. “Why stay in it, then?”

“The same reason I initially joined.” Again, his white gloved hand reaches out to explore the automail arms. This time, Winry feels no protective instinct, no desire to tear his hands away from her work. “To protect. Only this time, I know exactly what I signed up for, and I know exactly what I’m protecting.”

“A person?” Granny asks.

“A dream,” the lieutenant says.

Something cold bumps Winry’s leg. She jumps and yelps, turning to see Den standing behind her, tongue lolling and tail wagging. The innocent wideness of the canine’s eyes completely belies the seriousness of the conversation.

“Winry!” She turns around to see Granny narrowing her eyes at her disapprovingly. “How long have you been standing there, child?”

The disapproval in Granny’s gaze is hard to meet, so Winry finds herself looking at the lieutenant instead. Rather than disapproval, or even a scolding undertone that adults give eavesdropping children, there’s a sparkle of amusement in his dark eyes, along with an understanding glow.

Suddenly sheepish, she ducks her head. “N-Not long. I, um, found Den!”

As if on cue, Den announces her presence with a bark and trots over until she is visible through the doorframe.

“Well,” says the lieutenant, regaining that prior smoothness and glossing over any trace of vulnerability, “since we’ve found the dog, I suppose we should head back to the living room, yes? I think that the colonel might be finishing up right about now.”

* * *

“It is not our mistakes that define us,” says the colonel, with eyes that _burn_ like fire and brimstone. Winry doesn’t think she will ever forget them. “It’s how we _answer_ them.”

When she leaves, Ed turns to her and Mom and Dad and Granny with that same smoldering light. It is the first time that Winry will ever see such a ferocious intensity in his eyes, something so profound and earth-shaking that it makes her very bones quake. It is the first time, but certainly not the last.

“I want automail,” he declares, and says it as though no force on earth can convince him otherwise.

* * *

_~1910_

Lieutenant Mustang—Mr. Mustang—talked about protecting people with something deadly. He talked about putting something dangerous to good use, using it to keep those he cares about from dying.

Automail is infinitely useful and probably the highest-grade prosthetic you can possibly find. It allows you dexterity you will find nowhere else, allows you a touch of enhanced strength, and it lasts far longer than anything else on the market. The surgery for it is so painful it can drive even hardened men to tears. It is a bad idea to use anaesthesia for it because that can result in memory loss, and if you don’t see the patient jerking in pain, you don’t know for certain that you’ve connected the right nerve. It’s painstaking to craft, highly delicate inner-workings wrapped in a sturdy outer shell. It demands maintenance and can cause discomfort during massive shifts in the weather. That’s what Mom and Dad try to remind Ed of, despite being resigned to the fact that he likely can’t be deterred, because it’s _Edward Hohenheim_.

Guns. Automail. Alchemy. Are they all just tools, in the end? Is it really the people handling them that turns potential danger into strength?

She pokes her head into the surgery room, where Granny is sterilizing the equipment and preparing a weaker anaesthesia than is usually not used in surgeries of this magnitude. It’s the kind that only dents the pain, but it won’t have any adverse effects, so it’s best for automail port implantation. “Um, Granny?”

Granny is cleaning a scalpel in the sink, but doesn’t look up. “Yes, Winry?”

“Can I... Can I help? With the surgery, I mean.”

This gives her pause. Her back is mostly to Winry, so while she cannot see her grandmother’s face, she can see the way Granny’s shoulders loosen, as if in resignation. “You heard quite a lot of what that man said, didn’t you?”

Winry bites her lip guiltily, but does not deny it. “I want to help. Please.”

There’s a pause, and for one horrible fraction of a moment, she’s convinced Granny is going to deny her. But then the old woman sighs heavily. “You’ll need your parents’ permission, girl.”

She can scarcely believe it. But she doesn’t question it for the grin that splits her face, relieved and ecstatic. “O-Okay!”

* * *

Ed doesn’t scream.

He curses around the leather gag in his mouth and writhes violently beneath each fresh bolt of pain and clenches his teeth so hard she thinks he might actually snap the gag in two—but he doesn’t scream. If it didn’t scare Winry so much, his refusal to express something as human and undeniable as the ability to feel pain, then she thinks she might have admired it.

“This is nothing,” he says, over and over, slipping interchangeably from Amestrian to Xerxean. “This is nothing, this is nothing, this is nothing—”

She knows it’s all because Al is sitting outside, being distracted by Mom and Dad so that he won’t be tempted to eavesdrop. Al, trapped in a metal shell that she struggles to reconcile with the sweet little boy she grew up with, has lost the ability to sleep, or to eat, or to even feel the world around him. He confided in her once that it feels like he’s been wrapped in a glass box, able to see and hear everything that’s happening but unable to interact with it. After the conversation, she went to check on Ed and noticed the look on his face, even though he tried to hide it. It didn’t take a genius to know that he’d overheard the whole thing.

Maybe that’s why he declared that he would finish rehab in only one third of the time.

The cursing reaches a crescendo. If she didn’t have his blood on her hands and wasn’t hooking up nerve after nerve to automail ports, she would have been horrified at the sort of language coming from him. It’s the sort of thing you expect to hear from crude, war-weary soldiers, not the boy who lived next door to you as long as you’ve been alive. Half of it is Xerxean, but the idea is still the same, and she has as feeling that the translation is not something she’d like to be privy to. It almost makes her wonder how well she actually knows him.

Once the surgery is complete, Granny tugs off her latex gloves and tosses them in the nearby trash. “Alright, Ed, we’re done now.”

He blinks up at the ceiling, golden eyes dull and dazed and glossy with pain. She thinks he might cry, but the tears don’t spill over. “Done?” he repeats, voice hoarse.

“That’s right. All done.” Then she turns to Winry, who is tugging the leather gag free from his mouth, and murmurs, “I’m going to get the stronger stuff to help him sleep. You stay here and monitor him, okay?”

It means a lot to be left alone with a patient, because that’s something Granny had never entrusted her with before. It means even more because it’s Ed. Determined, she nods.

With that, Granny slips out of the room.

After the door closes, softly and without any hint of sound, Ed’s one remaining hand begins groping around the mattress. “...Winry?”

On instinct, she grips it, forgetting that she’s wearing bloodied latex gloves. He doesn’t really seem to care. “I’m here. It’s okay.”

“Sorry,” he slurs. The operation has definitely taken its toll. He probably won’t need the drugs before he falls unconscious.

“Don’t apologize.” Her grip on his hand tightens. The latex keeps her from feeling the warmth of his skin, but she can imagine it all the same, the rough patches and callouses he gained from training under his teacher in the South. “Ed, you were really great. Most people scream or pass out. But you didn’t! You’re really strong, Ed, so, don’t apologize for that.”

His eyes flutter closed. For a moment, she wonders if he’s fallen asleep, but then he turns his face away. “...‘s m’fault.”

She blinks. “What?”

“M’fault,” he repeats. “Al... m’fault.”

“No it’s not!” She grips his hand so hard that it would probably hurt, nails digging into skin, if she weren’t wearing gloves. “You couldn’t have known what would happen!”

Again, his eyes flutter closed.

“And it wasn’t even your idea,” she goes on. At least, that was what she overheard Al telling the colonel lady. Not that it really matters to her who thought of what or who’s to blame, but it seems like it might ease Ed’s conscience somewhat to tell him that.

“Doesn’t _matter_.” The vehemence of his tone takes her aback. “‘M th’ ol’est. Shoulda _known better_.”

“Ed—”

“Pro’lly hates me...”

Alarm curls through her, sharp and urgent. Her heart thumps a little too-loudly in her chest. “No. No, Al—he doesn’t hate you, Ed, he—”

Al told the colonel it was _his_ fault.

God! They’re _both_ idiots.

“‘S all m’fault.” This time she thinks he _is_ crying. Wetness glitters beneath his lashes, collects into fat droplets, and slowly rolls down his cheek. He takes a shuddering breath that comes out in a sob. “Couldn’t save him. Couldn’t save Dad. ‘S _all_ _my fault_.”

Something cold shoots through her veins, so cold that it _hurts_. “Ed.” She clenches his hand _hard_. “Ed, that is _not_ your fault, okay? Uncle Van just got really sick and it’s _not your fault_.”

He sobs again.

“Are you listening to me?” With her other hand, she grabs her shoulder and shakes him roughly. It probably hurts like ten-thousand hells, his other side still tender, but he _needs_ to understands, needs to be _awake_ to hear this. “It’s _not your fault_. Don’t you _dare_ blame yourself for that, you _bonehead_!”

Whatever comes out next is either in Xerxean or too slurred for her to understand. Maybe both. She doesn’t have time to scream anything else at him before Granny returns, peddling some fresh pressure bags. Her grandmother looks first at Ed, then at Winry, then sighs lightly. It’s only then that Winry notices the hot itch in her eyes, the way tears are sliding down her face. She didn’t even notice.

“Go clean the blood off,” Granny says. It sounds far more ominous than it’s meant to be.

* * *

For several days, Ed convalescences in unconsciousness. She makes routine trips to his room to check on him and often finds Al there, watching over him like a silent sentinel. There is often a book in Al’s hands. Winry has pressure bags and IVs to manage. Neither of them really says anything to one another, only share a look that acknowledges their mutual concern for Ed’s well-being before returning to their tasks.

Al is not in the room when Ed finally comes to, groggy and disoriented. She is at his bedside adjusting the pressure bag of electrolyte solution when she suddenly realizes a pair of bleary golden eyes are peering up at her. It almost has her jumping out of her skin.

“Ed! You’re awake!” Breathing deep and placing a hand over her heart to still it, she finds herself smiling. “You’ve been out for a couple days—oh, do you want me to get Al?”

But he only stares at her with an unnerving intensity. “Don’t tell Al.”

“Huh?”

“In the operating room,” he murmurs, half-awake and bleary. But it clicks, then, and she is flooded with fresh exasperation. “Don’t... don’t tell him.”

...unbelievable. He’s awake after three days, awake for the first time since receiving a painful and intensive surgery—and his first thought is keeping secrets from his own little brother. And while it is nice to think that he trusts her with the burden of his guilt and vulnerability, it leaves a sour taste in her mouth that he won’t confide in Al about something so serious.

“He doesn’t blame you,” Winry says. Ed is truly an idiot of the highest caliber. If he weren’t half-delirious and drug-addled, she’d be waving a spanner around just to hammer the message in. “You’d know that if you talked to him. Just _talk_ to him!”

But he only looks away. Slowly, though, not fast enough to keep her from seeing the flash of raw fear that crossed his face, the hesitation and the reluctance and the trepidation. “N...no. I’ll—I’ll just find a way to get him his body back, as soon as possible. Then, it won’t matter, y’know?”

It must be something about men, she decides while throwing her arms up in the air, that makes them so reluctant to communicate. Are they so meat-headed that they don’t understand how integral communication is to the human experience? Honestly!

The months pass in a strangely quick succession. She designs Ed’s arm while Granny crafts the leg. It is her first real project, and perhaps her most important one. Day and night she labors on it, visiting the blacksmiths’, choosing only the highest-grade metal, going over the dimensions over and over and over until everything is _perfect_. When the day comes for her to attach it, Ed strangles the involuntary scream that comes from having all your nerves activated at once. She tries to insist that he rest, that he lie down and ride out the pain, but he only smiles in a manner that is half-grimace before rising to his feet (the leg was attached a couple months ago, and he’s already making shocking progress in relearning how to walk).

“I’m _fine_ , Win,” he says, almost condescendingly, planting his working hand on his hip and sticking out his tongue. He’s wobbling even as he stands, like he’s going to fall over. Doesn’t he know his center of gravity needs time to adjust to the sudden addition of steel weight? “I’m not gonna _break_ , y’know?”

“Men are idiots,” she complains to her mother later.

Mom only smiles apologetically, as though a little sympathy can somehow redeem the folly of the opposite sex. “That they are, sweetie. That they are.”

Unfortunately, Dad happens to be passing by when this conversation takes place and decides that he is offended, even though he must realize Winry was talking about every man but him. “Hey!”

“You know I mean that lovingly,” Mom tells him with a giggle.

Though slightly mollified by this, Dad still gives an indignant huff as he goes out the door, presumably to check on Ed and Al. They’re both outside, Ed hobbling around on his new leg and Al trying to keep him from falling flat on his face, the idiot. Remembering that reaffirms Winry’s belief that every man, outside her own father and _maybe_ Al, is a bonehead that needs to have the sense knocked into them with a wrench.

Several weeks pass and she will occasionally catch them sparring with one another. Their movements are graceful, almost dancelike, and it’s strangely mesmerizing to watch. It unnerves her, because these are her childhood friends—they shouldn’t know how to fight so masterfully. Fighting implies there’ll be trouble, and the idea of them in danger...

She threatens Ed with a wrench, to which he screams back that she’s bloodthirsty and obsessive, that he is not going to break her automail, calm the fuck down, _stop throwing tools_.

“You’re unbelievably unfeminine!” he shouts at her, waving his flesh fist angrily. “Goddamn gearhead.”

“Alchemy freak,” she retorts, just like old times. That, at least, hasn’t changed. “We’re making _spaghetti_ tonight.”

He grimaces distastefully. “ _Yuck_.”

Satisfied, she crosses her arms. “That’s what you get for messing with my automail.”

For some reason, Al bursts out laughing.

One morning she catches Ed trying to get his fingers to work by turning the pages of a small leather pocketbook. He keeps cursing and holding out his hand, glaring at it while he, presumably, tries to curl his fingers or even twitch the thumb. She told him that dexterity is the trickiest part and that it comes last, but he’s stubborn beyond all reason and impatient to a fault, so of course he’s going to disregard what she says. It’s not like she’s an expert on this subject. Oh, no! By all means, ignore her and her prognoses. That’s _always_ a good idea.

“Just be patient,” Al advises, standing over Ed in a looming, hulking manner. Winry has slowly but surely grown used to Al in this form, even if she really doesn’t want to. “It takes time.”

“We don’t _have_ time,” Ed snaps, then goes back to trying—and failing—to flip through pages. A string of Xerxean curses follows, to which Al sighs softly.

She stops at the doorway and arches a brow in suspicion. “What are doing with my automail? You’re not straining yourself _again_ , are you?”

Ed shoots her a grouchy, affronted look. It seems to be his signature. “I’m _reading a book_. How is _that_ straining myself?”

“You’d _find_ a way.” While Ed scoffs his offense, her gaze slides over to the rest of the room. There’s a table pulled up to Ed’s bedside, a stack of books laying on it in a haphazard manner that looks as though it’s about to topple over at the slightest provocation. Al has a map stretched taught in his unwieldy hands. “What are you guys doing?”

“Granny found Dad’s old book of contacts,” Al explains while Ed tries, once again, to flip the page. The result is several being flipped at once and Ed letting out another string of curses. After casting his older brother an exasperated look, Al returns his attention to her. “See, Dad met a lot of prominent alchemists back when he traveled, all of them specializing in something a little different. He fell out of contact with a few, but some he still kept in touch with over the years.”

“Dad wasn’t the type to surround himself with third-rates,” Ed goes on. She finds herself approaching absently, eyeing the pages with idle curiosity. “Anyone he wrote down in here had to be noteworthy in their own right. And at least _one_ of these guys has gotta know something about how to get Al’s body back.”

There’s a creak as Al shifts, but he doesn’t say anything. It makes Winry wonder what he’s thinking. The helmet makes it kind of hard.

“Can I see?” she finds herself asking.

Surprised, Ed looks up at her and blinks, as though he’s only just noticed her presence. _Genuinely_ noticed. Still befuddled but not protesting, he tilts the book to allow better access. She tilts her head curiously as she takes in the elegant scrawl of Uncle Van’s hand. Who knew he had such lovely handwriting?

There are only three names listed on the first page

 _—1891, Bumble Hollow. Majhal, James._  
_~Research focuses primarily on soul theory and meta-alchemy*_

 _—1894, Xenotime. Tringham, Nash._  
_~Research revolves around alchemical catalysts_  
_*Working on theory based loosely on the ~~Philosopher’s Stone~~_

 _—1898, Grennich. Macintyre, Lujon._  
_~Researching obscure facets of medical alchemy*_  
_(Fairly young but shows a great deal of promise)_

while the adjacent page is occupied only by one.

 _—1907, Dublith. Curtis, Izumi._  
_~Experimenting with combat-applicable alchemy_  
_~Vast and incredible knowledge of alchemic theory and history_  
_ Clap alchemy_

The underlining is, in contrast to the flowing grace of the letters, a messily scribbled thing that is dark and deep and almost punctures the paper. It’s clear that Uncle Van was trying to place some sort of significance to it, but instead it’s the words he striked through that capture her attention. They’re barely legible around the errant ink that’s trying to hide them and she has to squint in order to it make out.

“What’s the ‘Philosopher’s Stone’?” It’s the first time she’s ever heard of such a thing, and the words have a strange, exotic weight to them that is somehow ominous and thrilling all at once.

“We’re not entirely sure,” Al admits sheepishly. He sets the map down on the table, giving her a nice few of the ringed coffee stain in the western corner. “I’ve never heard of it. But, Dad mentions it a bunch of times in footnotes about other alchemists.”

Ed looks out the window. She can see the faint ghost of his reflection in the windowpane, the furrowed brows and the faint frown. “It’s always scribbled out, though...”

Huh. Weird. “Okay, um... What do the asterisks mean?”

“The working theory is that it’s the kind of alchemy Dad would have been personally interested in.” Al peers down at the map in a contemplative manner. She sees now that the book-pile is of maps and atlases. “Like, the subjects he found most fascinating.”

Turning back to the pocketbook, Ed once again experiments with flipping the pages. It ends disastrously, which leads to a loud, exasperated sigh. “None of these towns have the state attached to them. Al, have you found ‘Grennich’ yet?”

“Nope. And ‘Bumble Hollow’ isn’t on here either. They must be very small towns—maybe just villages.” Al rises back up to his full height with a long, drawn-out creak. “I’ll ask Granny if she has something a little more detailed.”

Winry almost missed the way Ed winced at the creak, so engrossed in the book he seemed to be. But she _did_ notice. “Okay.”

Al pauses almost expectantly, like he’s waiting for Ed to say something else. When Ed only remains silent, Al gives his helmet a little shake before shuffling out into the hall. Winry watches him go, wondering if she should say something. But even then, what could she say? Nothing could change the reality they’re facing.

It occurs to her, as she looks back down at the map, how _large_ Amestris is. There’s Dublith, all the way down South, below Rush Valley but above South City—

...South City. South City is really far, but Dublith looks far closer in comparison. Has their master’s town always been so far from Risembool, and she just never realized?

“You’re leaving, then,” Winry says. It’s not a question. Maybe it never was. The townsfolk always talk about people who leave Risembool as though they’re flighty, unreliable—but Uncle Van wasn’t like that. He just had restlessness in his blood, the kind that took him all over the country, to new and exciting places. It only makes sense that his sons would inherit that wanderlust.

Perhaps her tone is a touch too sad, because Ed pauses for a moment before he raises his eyes. The grim determination there is laced with resignation. “We can’t do anything staying here.”

They said that about learning alchemy, too.

A lump forms in her throat. She thinks she might choke on it. “How long do you think you’ll be gone?”

He shrugs in a rather careless manner, still peering down at the pocketbook. “Dunno.”

“...oh.”

Something must give her despondence away, because he peers up at that. “It won’t be that long,” he promises, but it sounds halfhearted, so it’s hard to believe him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started off kind of iffy with this but grew to love it. And I _know_ I've been doing a lot "character pieces" lately, but I promise things will get back to advancing the plot soon enough.
> 
> After some preliminary research, I have found that the ingredients listed as the "human being composition" are indeed easily accessible, and also not very expensive. You can find them in a lot of household items, too.
> 
> I think this will be my only update for November. If anyone has any questions or needs any clarification, do ask. I will try to avoid spoilers, but everything else is free game!
> 
> Sincerely yours,  
> The Immortal Moon


	10. October Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _We’ve already destroyed so much_ , he thinks, looking down at the metal gauntlets that serve as his hands. _And we’re about to destroy even more._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Allusions to panic attacks, PTSD, and traumatic experiences. Reader discretion is advised.

_“I demolish my bridges behind me—then there is no choice but to move forward.”_  
—Fridtjof Nansen

 

_~1911_

It’s early October, the sun dripping into the horizon with fiery color. Shadows elongate and darken, the air swirling with leaves that are somewhere between vividly colorful and crispy brown. Exactly three months earlier, Al turned eleven, and Winry thinks with a pang of sorrow that it’s the first time they haven’t been able to celebrate with birthday cake.

Winry is twelve now but she feels older, somehow. Infinitely ancient. She’s not a child anymore, not really. Adolescence is something strange and alien that carves its way through you, swallows you up from the inside out.

She’s not the only one who’s changed. Ed looks at the world with eyes that are harder and flintier, harsh cabochons of distilled amber. He’s allowed his hair to grow out to the point where it drips past his shoulders, and has since stopped complaining when she jokingly braids it. In fact, she notices that he’s taken something of a preference to the style, wearing with a sort of private pride. Though he is still unwieldy with the artificial limbs, he’s regained his balance in a startlingly short time, able to move his leg with much less trouble than before and his fingers twitching with startling dexterity. At the time, when he had declared how he would kick rehab within a year, she had balked at it, thought it impossible. Maybe that was on her for doubting his sheer stubbornness.

Al has changed too, though it’s subtler, harder to identify and place into words. It’s more the way he moves than anything else, how he has learned to bend low to accommodate doorframes and has become less cautious in how he interacts with the world, more sure of exactly what the unfamiliar body is capable of. But that means he’s grown used to this configuration, and that hurts, somehow.

As Winry is retiring from long hours spent in the workshop, she catches sight of a small but intensely bright point on the hill next door. Frowning at the oddness, she goes to Ed’s room to ask if he knows what it is—but he’s not there, and neither is Al.

...sigh.

The autumn air is cool and crisp, but it has a pressing dryness to it that comes from being so close to the Great Desert and the ruined badlands of Ishval. She throws a jacket over her bare arms and slips her shoes on. Den, sprawled out on the porch and perking her ears at Winry’s approach, is awarded an absentminded scratch behind the ear for her silence. With that, she runs off towards the house next door.

It is as familiar to her as the back of her hand, if she thinks about it. Tall and white and always there, always right where it should be, where it needs to be. There’s something rather picturesque about it, in a strange way, or at least to a small-town girl who thinks “picturesque” is defined by perfect construction, be it machine or building. Like the rest of Risembool, it’s not a particularly new structure, the framing and roofing a bit dated, but it looks as though it’s been fixed up so much that it almost looks new. That’s probably the work of alchemy—Uncle Van was always so good at refurbishing things, making them new and whole again.

Against the whiteness, Ed and Al are mere silhouettes. A heavy coat is draped over the elder’s shoulders, far too large and rippling against the faint breeze and scarlet as freshly-spilled blood. There’s a dark symbol sewn onto the back, probably alchemic, though Winry admittedly doesn’t recognize it. In on hand, from which the sleeve droops loosely around his wrist, she sees a torch clutched in gleaming metal fingers. A flame billows from it, so impossibly bright that it almost hurts to look at. Al has his helmet turned as if to observe the torch, feathery ornament at the top streaming outwards in a sinuous curl.

“What are you two idiots doing?!” Winry demands as she stumbles up the hill. The grass is far too long and in need of trimming, so it’s slippery beneath her shoes.

At the sound of her voice, they both turn. Ed physically jumps a little as he does. The firelight casts shadows across the lines of his face as it flickers and it offsets the rich golden color of his irises. Ocher light glitters icily as it creeps across Al’s metal surface.

“Winry?” Al’s soulfire eyes glimmer with surprise. He creaks as he regards her. “What are you doing here?”

“A better question is what are _you_ doing?” Planting her hands on her hips, she looks pointedly at the torch in Ed’s hand. He peers at it bemusedly, as though he’s trying figure out what part of it offends her.

Something hardens on Ed’s face, and he turns back to her with eyes that burn determinedly. The torch suddenly seems dim in comparison. “We’re burning the house down.”

“...what—”

“We can’t go back.” It’s Al who says this, and she turns to him in surprise. Ed, she can understand doing something this stupid. But Al? Al’s the _sane_ one. “Any chance of a normal life for us vanished when we performed that transmutation. All we can now is move forward. So... we’re burning down our house.”

“This is a symbol of our resolve,” Ed declares proudly.

“You’re gonna—” Boys. _Boys_. Where do they _get_ these stupid ideas? Is there, like, some special component in their brain chemistry that gives yield to _sheer idiocy_? “Are you completely _nuts_?”

Ed’s face hardens and he looks away. “It’s not... like we’re gonna use it, with how much we’ll be away and everything.”

Oh, for the love of— “Please tell me you at least went through everything.”

They both stare at her blankly.

“Y’know. Like. Old photos, rare books. Your dad’s _research_. Stuff that’s _important_ and _irreplaceable_. Things he probably _dedicated his life to_ and _wouldn’t_ _want you burning_.”

Bewilderedly, they look at each other. Al shifts, sheepishly placing a hand behind his helmet. “Um, well...”

“Un _believable_.” Growling her frustration, she charges past and stomps her way onto the porch.

“Where are you going?” Ed demands.

The door wrenches free, but it groans as it does. Clearly the hinges need to be oiled. “To rescue all your important stuff before you two idiots burn it down!”

She clicks on the lights. They flicker slowly, stuttering from the long period of disuse that they suffered. It must have been months since anyone last set foot in this house, not since Mom retrieved everything from the fridge and pantry and icebox. Photographs pinned by little magnets flock across the refrigerator surface. Papers are loosely gathered across the coffee table, while a wooden bookshelf is set up near the fireplace. Those idiots. All those things would have gone up like tinder, snapped up without any hesitation or consideration for their intrinsic value. It’s a damn good thing she intervened—honestly, what would they do without her?

It’s the photographs that immediately call to her. She ambles over to them for a closer look. At the forefront is a picture from their collective fishing trip three years ago, just before she’d gotten the “news” about her parents on the battlefield. Directly beneath it is a family photo of Uncle Van and the brothers, all three of them golden and grinning towards the camera (they’re so _happy_ ). The collection also features baby pictures, birthday parties, and even a couple snapshots of either Ed or Al performing a transmutation. Some of them feature foreign terrain, likely from trips they took as a family at some point or another. One in particular catches her attention—Ed and Al posing in front of a fountain that sports an impressive-looking marble statue, arms thrown over one another’s shoulders and pulling each other impossibly close. They both grin at the camera, although there’s a glint of something impish in Ed’s eye, like he plans to enact some sort of malicious intention once no one is watching. Al just looks delighted, but there’s also this anticipation, as though he’s already looking past the camera for what comes next.

“That was the day we went to East City.” She nearly jumps out of her skin and whirls around. Ed stands behind her, peering down at the photo with an expression she can’t read. The torch is gone. “I’d... forgotten about that.”

In the living room, Al creaks as he begins sorting through the papers on the coffee table. He makes two piles, and one is steadily growing thicker. She wonders which of the two is what.

“So you’re actually going to go through everything?” she asks.

To that, he looks away and huffs. “I mean... we can’t just _burn_ Dad’s research.”

“We probably should have thought of that before,” Al admits sheepishly.

That they should have. Winry plucks their fishing trip photo from the fridge and then glances at Ed. He looks very different from the boy in the picture (and not just because of the clothes). “Did you also think of that outfit before?”

This snaps him from his reverie. “Yeah, why?”

“It’s gaudy.”

“That’s what _I_ told him,” Al crows. He’s gathered up the smaller pile in one hand. She takes this to mean it’s what he wants to keep.

“It’s not gaudy! It’s eye-catching!” Before she can point out that those are pretty much the same thing, he snatches a few photos off the fridge. Among them is the one featuring the fountain, the family photo, and a black-and-white image that seems to feature Dad and Uncle Van in their teenage years. “Whatever. We’re gonna have to make multiple trips, just to carry all this junk.”

_Don’t call it junk, you meathead. You know you miss this._

At this, Al straightens abruptly. He’s moved over to the bookcase, one leather hand hovering over a book with a faded maroon cover and a title writ in a cheap reminiscent of gold leaf. “Oh! I actually already thought of that.” By the time she realizes he’s no longer holding the papers from before, he cracks his breastplate open and reveals several books and papers packed into the hollow of his metal body. “Check it out! Instant storage space.”

Ed looks mildly disturbed. “...Al, no.”

“Well, I mean, I’m trapped in this body, right?” Al closes the breastplate back up. The hinges squeak very faintly. “I might as well take full advantage of it.”

A slightly greenish shade enters Ed’s complexion, but he quickly shakes his head and turns away. “Yeah, sure, fine, whatever. Do what you want.”

Well, it’s not like Al _knew_ what he was doing. Still, she intervenes before it can go too far. “Well, it’ll definitely save us the extra trips. Right?”

Muttering in Xerxean, Ed slips the photographs into his pocket. He takes a few more, plucking them off like one might pick apples or blackberries, but with far more careless abandon. Sparing each one a quick, precursory glance, he slides them into his pocket, then stops abruptly, turning away. There are still more photos on the fridge, but it’s clear from his dismissiveness that they aren’t worth saving. With that done, he shuffles past her, mumbling something about checking their room for any stray research material. She watches silently as he ascends the stairs, his scarlet coat a beacon against the gloom.

Once he is out of sight and presumably earshot, Al turns to her slowly. He’d probably wince, if he could. “...that was a bit too blunt, wasn’t it?”

“A little bit.”

He sighs loudly, placing a hand on the front of his helmet. “I’m just... trying to make the best of it, for now.”

“I think it’s still a little too soon.” Plus there’s what Ed said, fever-addled and delirious, though she has no plans to tell Al that. It isn’t her place. When he continues to look despondent, she tries to smile, because at least one of them should be able to. “Don’t worry about it too much, Al. It just needs a little time, I think. Then you can make jokes left and right!”

Too late she realizes that implies that this will be going on long enough for them to not be phased by it at all, and she wishes she could snatch the words back, lest they become reality.

* * *

They spit up to search separate parts of the house. Because there was no attic in the Hohenheim house, most things in storage—old but significant things that had no other place in the house—ended up in the basement, which Al volunteers to root through. Meanwhile, the rooms are searched by Ed, with his fluttering coat making him look like a scarlet ghost drifting down the halls, eyes glazed. Because she didn’t really know where anything might be, Winry ends up staying in the basement with Al for a while.

“What about _this_?” She picks up a rather fluffy-looking teddy bear with big, glassy black eyes. There’s a big green bow tied around the neck, the ribbon wispy and translucent.

Al regards it for a moment, considering. “...I have no memory of that.”

“It looks like a baby toy,” she says. It’s very soft, the fur short and fluffy. The nose is hard, though, likely molded plastic. She clutches it to her chest, throwing an exaggerated pout his way. “Are you _sure_ you don’t want to keep it?”

He chuckles a little at that. The sound is vaguely echoing, but it’s not so much disconcerting as it was all those months ago. With grim resignation, she realizes she’s slowly growing used to Al in this form. “Do _you_ want to keep it, Winry?”

“It’s adorable,” she declares, not caring how young she sounds. It’s been a long time since she’s felt her own age. “And _very_ cuddly. You can snuggle it after you get your body back.”

He laughs a little at that. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, put it in.” The breastplate swings open. Even if it is a little strange to see the hollow inside, she can’t deny the usefulness of having a mobile carrier.

Without much hesitation she tosses the teddy onto the miscellaneous pile of books and papers and other important things they decided to save. There’s a photo album here and a packet of letters there, and beneath it a book that details Uncle Van’s family tree. A few souvenirs gathered by Uncle Van from travels across the East State and beyond. A box of blown-glass figurines that Al suspects to be Xerxean in origin, or at least based off Xerxean style. Some decorative weapons, intricate knives and letter openers with curlicue hilts, and a single clay vase that looks absolutely ancient. Old jewelry, alternatively clay or polished gemstones or alchemized metal, has been placed within the pot. One thing that particularly catches her eye is a set of decorative pens that looks far too expensive to burn. Uncle Van probably paid good money for them, only to completely forget about them in the hubbub of life and leave them to collect dust in the meantime. It would be (have been) within his nature.

After closing his breastplate back up, Al doesn’t continue looking through the box at his feet. Instead, he slowly examines his surroundings, as though he’s seeing it for the first time. “...everything looks so different now.”

Frowning, she looks around. The basement looks no different than you’d expect of a basement. Cement walls and floor, though there are no cracks or hint of disrepair (which again, Winry chalks up to Uncle Van and his alchemy). There’s a faintly sour smell in the air, like mildew or asbestos. Water stains form vague, shapeless outlines across the walls, but thankfully nothing has managed to touch the multitude of cardboard boxes stacked in the corners, which they are currently ransacking in search of priceless, irreplaceable valuables. Some of them are labelled with sloppy black letters in ink, others are plain. There is a variety in how well they are taped, alternating between sloppy and precise and somewhere in-between. A single lightbulb hangs limply overhead from a thin, spindly string.

Idly, she picks up a beautiful hair decoration, a golden headband that is inlaid with lapis lazuli and stylized with oddly-shaped leaves. “It doesn’t look _that_ different, does it?”

“It looks...” He absently runs his leather thumb over the cardboard flap. “...smaller.”

Curling, vine-like shapes are slightly dented on one side. Biting her lip, she straightens them. “...oh.”

The box is closed back up, deliberately slow. “I... I didn’t want to come in here, because I was worried it would look different. And I was right. E-Everything’s so _small_ now. This is the last time I’ve ever going to see it, and I’m seeing it... _like this_.”

... _God_. She hadn’t even thought of that. “I—sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“But you were right, too,” he interrupts, turning back to her. Those strangely glowing eyes fall onto the ornament in her hands. “I didn’t even know Dad _had_ all this stuff. If we’d burned it all down... a lot of things would have been lost forever, and we wouldn’t have even _known_ it.”

Blue light sparkles in the gemstones. She runs her finger across the length of the headband, the gold smooth and without rust. Perfectly preserved. “Yeah. Some of it is really amazing. I wonder why he kept it down here.”

“Dunno.” His gaze wanders around the space, and she hasn’t quite yet gotten adept at reading his expressions, so she can’t quite tell what he’s thinking.

“Why do you really want to burn it down?” she asks suddenly. “And don’t say it’s a symbol of your resolve. That’s bull, and I don’t buy it.”

He looks off at the stairs that lead up onto the main floor. They’re also well-kept, not rotted or sagging the way you’d expect them to be. Uncle Van must have really taken good care of the house. “...honestly? It... the house just feels like a _ghost_. It has, for a long time now. Like we’ve been living inside Dad’s skeleton.”

Winry thinks back to the pervasive sense of emptiness she feels whenever she walks into the house, as though some crucial component had been removed. There was always a sense of loss, of absence. She always thought is was due to the cats, whom she always expected to be down the hall and shedding fur, no longer being there. But maybe it really is connected to Uncle Van. Maybe it always has been. Everything seems to be, as of late.

“If we burn it down, it’ll be like finally putting his spirit to rest.” Al looks back at the pile of boxes in front of him. “Like we’re... like we’re _finally_ acknowledging that he died, I guess.”

“I guess that makes sense,” she offers, because she’s not sure what else to say to that.

“Well, I mean that’s how _I_ feel. I’m not entirely sure about Brother, honestly.” He glances up at the bulb hanging from the ceiling, as though recognizing it for the first time. “...everything’s changing, isn’t?”

“Everything always changes.” Like your parents die but then they don’t. Your family friend withers before you know what’s happening. Then your best friends turn from flesh to steel, and you’re left designing an arm so that they can restore themselves.

“Never for the better, though.” A leather hand falls to rest tenderly atop the topmost box. “It feels like the only time things get better is when they go back to being the way they were.”

She thinks about her parents coming back from the war and, well, maybe she understands what he means by that. “Yeah... but life isn’t supposed to work that way.”

A sigh echoes through Al’s metal shell. “I never wanted things to change. That’s... that’s why I...” Another sigh, to which he bows his helmet-head subtly, as though the weight of this admission is too much for him. “ _God_ , I’m so stupid.”

Very suddenly, she wishes she had the teddy bear in her arms, or Den hear to stroke. Something soft and warm and comforting. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” he says, bemused. “You didn’t do anything, Winry.”

“That’s the _problem_.” Her eyes start to prick with wet warmth and her vision begins to blur just a bit. “I should’ve _done_ something. _Said_ something. But I didn’t. I _let_ it happen.”

He looks surprised by this, and unsure how to respond. “Winry. This... this _isn’t_ your fault. In any sense! It’s our _own_ fault for being stupid a-and doing something stupid and—it’s called the ‘ultimate taboo’. We should have _known_ better. That’s on us, _not_ you.”

Sniffing, she wipes at her eyes. Her fingertips come away wet. “Not doing something you’re supposed to is the same as doing something you’re not supposed to.”

For a long time, Al doesn’t say anything. He just watches her, those glowing eyes so intense and vivid and nuanced that she can’t even begin to interpret them. Finally, he turns away. The scrape of metal fills the silence. “I don’t think there’s anything else here worth keeping. We should head upstairs to see if Brother’s done.”

“...okay.”

* * *

They find Ed sitting on the bottom step of the stairs. He has a stack of books on his left side and a photograph in one hand, which he seems unable to look at for whatever reason. Between the heavy long coat and the long bangs framing his face, he suddenly looks very small.

When they approach, he doesn’t look up, only thrusts the photograph out. “Figured you’d wanna keep this, Al,” is all he says, though the way he says it speaks louder—the tight coil of bitterness and antipathy that lingers beneath. “Personally, I think we should use it to start the fire.”

Winry takes the photo and shows it to Al. It’s an image of four nicely-dressed people, all of them with deep, vividly golden hair. She recognizes a young Uncle Van, as well as a toddler version of Ed and an infant Al. The woman whose face is turned away from the lens, she doesn’t know, but she can see some familiarity in the woman’s profile, can see a similar slope in her nose as she can in Al’s.

 _That must be Aunt Trisha_.

“This is Dad’s favorite photo,” Al says, taken aback.

Stretching languidly, Ed rises up to his feet. His metal foot makes a loud _thunk_ against the step. “Still think we should burn it.”

“It’s our only photo of all four of us.”

“... _again_ —”

“Brother, no.”

“Whatever.” He scoops up the small stack of books in one arm. The steel arm, she notices absently. “Stick these in somewhere.”

Because Winry is still holding the hairpiece, Ed passes them to Al, who has to hand the photo back to her so that he can take the stack with both hands. She doesn’t recoil when he opens his breastplate and piles them in. Ed, however, gawks openly at the collection.

“Where’d you get all _that_?”

“Dad had lots of old stuff in the basement,” Al says. She passes him the hairpiece before he can close himself back up, and he accepts it delicately, pinching it with two fingers to avoid damaging it unintentionally. “Like this peacock thing. I bet it’s Xerxean.”

Ohhhh. Peacock makes more sense than “weird-leaf-patterns”.

“Huh,” is all Ed says, blinking.

For some reason, Winry finds herself glancing up at the study door. It’s closed tight. “So is that everything?”

At this, something shifts on Ed’s face, and he averts his eyes. “Everything except... the study.”

Al looks down at his feet with a soft, “Oh.”

She looks between them, immediately getting the feeling that she’s missing something. “What’s wrong with the study?”

They exchange a glance with one another, then quickly break eye contact and look anywhere else but her.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. “...that’s where you did the—the _thing_... isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Ed says, voice low.

Well, okay. That’s... she understands their reluctance, now. “Do you _need_ to go through it?”

There’s a slow creak as Al raises his helmet. “...most of Dad’s research is in the study still, I think.”

Ed hisses something in Xerxean. Al casts him a sympathetic look.

Tension has settled in the air, nice and thick. She can’t stand it. “Well, we can just grab everything real quick and sort through it all later.” Before either of them can protest, she sidesteps around Ed and sweeps up the stairs. The railing, she realizes as she clutches it, is layered finely in dust. “It’s not super pressing, right? Just grab it and go.”

When she reaches the study door, it seems larger somehow. More foreboding. Too white and too immaculate, to the point where there’s something almost ominous about it. She finds the brass handle nippy against her palm. It won’t turn.

Two sets of footsteps come up from behind her. One is metallically heavy in a way only a suit of armor can be. The second is uneven, and she only just notices, then, the dissonant _tha-thunk_ of a metal and flesh leg working in tandem. How is it that she’s never noticed before? She turns to see Ed hovering behind her, his expression schooled into a carefully blank mask.

“Is it locked?” Ed’s bangs fall over his eyes like curtains.

She grunts her affirmation and tugs at the handle again. No luck. “Um... do either of you have any chalk?”

“I don’t think so.” Al creaks as he glances off somewhere else. “But I think there might be a pencil or something lying around somewhere...”

Well. They _are_ planning to burn the house down. Pencil lead on the door seems awfully insignificant in comparison.

Al leaves and then returns with a pencil. As he begins drawing on the door—a glyph that Winry recognizes as meaning “open”—Ed’s brow furrows. “Why are you using a glyph?”

“What _else_ are we supposed to use?” Al retorts with a nervous little laugh. She can practically feel the tension radiating off him, facial expression or no. They don’t want to be here. Maybe she should let them know they can leave, if they want. “Neither of us can clap like Teacher can!”

Ed opens his mouth, but immediately falters, blinking approximately three times in rapid succession. His jaw clicks audibly shut.

The glyph alights icy-blue as Al activates it and then the handle _pops_ off like the cork of a champagne bottle. It soars past them so fast that Winry actually feels the _whoosh_ of air rushing past. There’s a sharp _bang_ as it hits a wall, and she turns just as it falls and clatters to the ground.

“Oops,” Al says, sheepish.

Looking rather impressed, Ed clucks his tongue. “ _Nice_.”

“At least it’s open now.” Winry grips the hole left by the knob in both hands and _wrenches_ the door open.

With a groan, the hinges ultimately give way, so that the door swings open in a wide arc that forces both her and Ed to leap back. Immediately, she is hit by the heavy combination of citrus-smelling disinfectant, wood varnish, and air that has grown far too stale. She wrinkles her nose against it, because the amalgam is rather nauseating. At her side, Ed gags loudly.

The room itself is far cleaner than Winry has, in her limited memory, ever seen it. There are no books pulled from the shelves, no papers lying around. The desk is uncluttered by any stray materials or research, all the pens and pencils set into makeshift holders (read: coffee mugs) and the inkwells have been capped. A row of candles, each one in various stages of melted beyond recognition, have been lined up on the end of the desk, with an unlit kerosene lamp marking the end of the row. Some empty bottles and crumpled up papers are stuffed into the nearest wastebasket, while a couple broken bulbs sitting atop. There’s a tin wash basin leaned against the wall, though she can’t fathom why something like that would be here. All the bookcases have been shoved flat against the wall, leaving a rather gaping space in the center of the room. Everything is shrouded in deep, gloomy shadow.

She flicks the light on. Only a couple of the lights are working, so it doesn’t offer much relief. Instead, it casts strange, ominous shadows across the space. It glimmers across the metallic half-suit of armor sitting in the corner, held up by a stand of some kind. It suddenly looks dead to her.

Soft creaking has her glancing up at Al, who leans into the doorway with his head slightly ducked. She can only see his profile, his hulking form hard and stark against the half-light. Unlike the armor in the corner, she gets the very sudden sense that he’s _alive_.

“...it’s empty,” Al muses.

“Uh. Yeah.” And really, really clean. Winry can see a touch of her father’s precision in how everything is lined up carefully—although she also sees a faint coating of dust on all the furniture. The giant patch of empty space on the floor is glossier than anywhere else, probably as evidence to where Dad and Mr. Mustang scrubbed it clean and re-varnished it. “Dad _did_ say he cleaned the circle away.”

“...I guess.” There’s a thunk against the wall that nearly makes her jump. Al glances sharply over his spiked shoulder. “Brother?”

Winry glances over her shoulder to see Ed with his back pressed against the wall, a gloved hand clapped over his mouth. His right leg is bent deeply while the left is thrust outwards in front of him, so that he’s half-slid down the wall. There’s a sickly green shade to his complexion, his eyes shiny like they’re about to spill over. With a vague horror, she watches the muscles in his throat work, catches muffled whines and grunts of effort, as though he’s fighting back a tactile wave of nausea.

“Ed!” A bolt of pure terror goes through her. Abandoning the doorway, Winry zips over to his side and grasps his shoulder. There is a loud, obnoxious clanking as Al does the same, positioning himself on Ed’s other side. “ _Easy_. Deep breaths.”

“I’m—” He gags loudly into his hand, but thankfully nothing comes out. “I’m o-okay—”

“Are you _sure_?” Al’s voice grows high and quivering with anxiety.

Looking physically pained, Ed swallows hard. His breath comes out in a loud, sucking gasp. “Y-Yeah...” He doesn’t look at either of them, but straight ahead, his eyes wild. She has the niggling sensation that he’s looking at something far, far beyond either of them. “I just... I c-can’t go _in_ there—”

“Okay,” she says. The incessant bristle of unease has begun to flatten itself and calm. His coat is soft and fleecy beneath her hand. She can’t help but notice that he’s shaking, just a bit. “O-Okay! You don’t have to. I’ll just—grab everything and bring it out and neither of you have to go in at all, okay?”

“Okay,” he murmurs. He’s still tremoring, but the tension in his shoulders is starting to ease up. “Okay.”

Al glances at her, and it is in that moment that his eyes are so vividly expressive she wants to cry. There is fear and genuine concern and she can tell that any effort to pry them apart from each other is going to end in failure. Breathing in deep, she nods, then darts into the study.

The smell is strong, the air stale and brittle as she breathes in and out. Or maybe—maybe that’s not staleness, but the lingering detritus of transmutation. She is hit with a sudden sensation of anxiety, the urge to run. Books are ripped off the shelf en-mass, pulled into her arms until she can’t carry them anymore. Hastily running back to the doorframe, she dumps them into the hall, then repeats the process. Again, and again, and again, and again. Until the shelves are completely empty. Without books to fill them, they look like skeletons.

It suddenly occurs to her that they are, in a sense, scavenging the corpse of this place. Picking out the most desirable parts for themselves, then leaving the rest to rot—or in this case, burn.

_God._

By the time she has completely emptied the bookshelves out, Al’s breastplate is already open and Ed has recovered enough to start sorting through the books. There’s still tension in his body, of course, and there’s something brittle about the way he moves and talks, but he is holding up the pretense of being alright, at the very least. He and Al are bickering as he does so, though the conversation is so heavy with alchemy jargon that they might as well be speaking Xerxean. After a few words are exchanged, Ed scoops up a thick volume and shoves in ceremoniously into Al’s body, often having to take out something else more delicate—like the headband or the decorative pen set—to shove into his own pocket so that it won’t be crushed.

Winry dumps the last stack of books onto the floor, then whirls around to flick the lights off. Once she has, once everything is submerged in darkness, her hackles immediately flatten. She closes the study door.

It takes them a good few minutes to go through the books together, simply because of how many there are. She doesn’t know a thing about any of them, save for the old beginner’s guide volumes that she never really finished, so all she does is read titles and then pass them to the brothers. From there, Ed either immediately stores it away or pauses to consult Al. Sometimes, though, they’ll exchange a look with one another, and then Ed will cast it aside. But when all is said and done, Al’s hollow body is filled to the brim and the three of them each have their own individual stack to carry. The rest pile high on the floor all around them.

“Okay.” Ed’s stack reaches so high that it totters just a hint above his head, and he seems to visibly strain with keeping his balance. His pockets are stuffed to the point of bursting. “Let’s get all of this outside and far away enough that it won’t catch fire.”

The stairs creak obnoxiously as Al shuffles down them, and he groans with each movement. “Why are the stairs so loud all of a sudden?”

“It’s ‘cause you’re stuffed full of junk and three times as heavy,” Ed retorts. He leans heavily against the railing to keep his balance.

“Are you calling me fat, Brother?”

“... _what_?”

Coming up from behind them, Winry can’t help but giggle. It rings out through the empty halls.

* * *

By the time they re-emerge, it’s well past dark and the temperature must have plummeted, because Brother and Winry’s breathes come out in icy puffs. The moon has risen high into the sky with a ghostly tint of yellow-orange to its creamy surface, bright like a single eye opening up to peer down at them. All around, the heavens unfurl in a glittering silver veil, with ripples and eddies of mystic color twisting around in the velvet black sky. It looks like a midnight rainbow of some kind, but Al can see clouds slowly approaching in the distance, a little like the curtain of play, falling over the stage after the final act.

Brother is not wrong about the fact that carrying so much is putting a strain on him. His metal knees groan with each step, and he can feel the steel starting to buckle ever-so-slightly. By the time they reach a sizeable distance from their old home, he drops his stack of books before collapsing against the ground with a relieved sigh. Physical sensation may be lost to him, but gravity certainly decided to stick around. Even just sitting here, he can feel his body weighing against him, crying out to sink into the ground.

“You’ve got the right idea,” Brother says, then deposits his own collection beside Al’s. Winry does the same a moment later, then drops to the ground herself. Beneath the moonlight, Brother’s hair is washed out to a pale, buttermilk color, while Winry’s looks white as a phantom’s. “Those damn things are _heavy_.”

“But clearly important, if you decided to carry them.” There’s a hint of smugness in the way Winry says this, her eyes sparkling with a tentative humor.

“You’ve got us there,” Al tells her, while Brother, the epitome of maturity, sticks out his tongue. He thinks back to the basement, to the mountains of boxes filled with precious artifacts now crowded into his metal body. Dad always talked about being Xerxean, but it only hits Al, just now, what that really means.

Xerxean. Part of an _entirely different culture_. A culture that’s dying a slow, painful death of dilution and ignorance. Dad hadn’t had time to teach them all of it. And they hadn’t even known—

How much they could have destroyed, in their own careless selfishness.

 _We’ve already destroyed so much_ , he thinks, looking down at the metal gauntlets that serve as his hands. _And we’re about to destroy even more._

Highly aware of the creak that accompanies the shift of his helmet, Al peers at their house—not “home”, per se, because it hasn’t felt like that for a while now—with fresh eyes. The whiteness of it glows against the moonlight and gives it an ominous touch. There’s so much history in that house, Al is sure, perhaps more than he even knows. Dad’s family lived there. He’d grown up there. It was the house that he and Brother first learned alchemy in, came back to at the end of the day, tracked mud into the front hall and eaten breakfast every morning and played out in the yard. That tire swing on the apple tree out back was a source of endless amusement to them as children. It was on this porch that Brother first found Socks. Al used to do his homework at the kitchen counter. He and Brother used to listen to the wireless in the living room late at night, leaning over the armrest and craning their necks to hear better. Dad used to chase them through the hallways when they were little, used to scoop them up in his strong arms and hold them so tight—

But that’s over. And no amount of pretending can make it not so.

He notices Brother rooting around the pile of books. There’s a strange dissonance between wanting to frown and not having the physical muscles and nerves to do so. “Brother, what are you doing?”

Rather than answer, Brother pulls out an off-white stack of papers bound together by messy twine. The inky scrawl catches the light—Al immediately recognizes it, and his hollow insides fill with dread.

“Our old notes,” he murmurs. _Our human transmutation notes_ , he doesn’t say.

The papers end up cradled beneath the crook of Brother’s arm. The steel arm—Al finds himself heavily conscious of Brother’s metal limbs, even when he tries not to be. It’s hard to ignore the clench of guilt each time. But Brother, he flashes a razor-slash grin that has too much teeth and is a bit too forced. “Figured this’ll make some decent kindling.”

Well, Al supposes, it would be fitting. Those notes are the whole reason they could no longer live normal lives, could no longer spend the rest of their existence carefree and content. It only makes sense that, as the spark that burned their bridges, they light the fire meant to burn away their roots.

At his side, Winry folds her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around her legs. The hem of her dress only comes up to her knees, so everything else is left bare. Al notices goosebumps rising up the exposed flesh. “So you’re going to light the fire now?”

“That’s the whole point.” Brother says it in a noncommittal manner, but Al knows seeing the house’s inside affected him, too. That reaction to the study was proof enough—Al has never seen Ed like that, so physically shaken that he couldn’t even move.

_“[Do you remember, Al?]” he asks in soft Xerxean. There’s something in his eyes—some sort of strange light that chills Al to the metaphorical bone. “[The transmutation—do you remember?]”_

_Concern and anxiety clash together in Al. Brother looks like he’s going pass out or throw up or worse. And yes, Al was unnerved by the study, but he can’t feel it physically. Can’t smell whatever it is in the air that makes Brother nauseous or Winry wrinkle her nose. It doesn’t affect him in the same way. It can’t, anymore._

_“[Not really],” he admits quietly, to which Brother quickly looks away. “[I—I don’t remember a lot.]”_

_There was a beat of silence filled only by Winry’s methodical comings and goings and dropping books onto the floor. Thump, thump, thump. Treated leather meets hardwood. Normally Al would protest against the rough treatment. Right now, he hardly spares it a second thought._

_Brother’s gaze is somewhere far, far away. Not like the sort of absent-minded distance that Al associates with Dad. Not the kind where you get so caught up in your own musings that the world skips around you. There’s something different here. Something... haunted, almost. But not quite. His eyes sort of glaze over while also giving off this foreign, brilliant light, like someone trying to conceal a candleflame behind linen sheets. It’s a glow that spreads out in a great, orange halo around the single point of brightness. The longer he looks at it, the more it unnerves him._

_Then, without warning, Brother’s gaze snaps over to him and focuses, the light extinguished. “[Good],” is all he says on the matter, then gets up abruptly and starts sorting books._

By the time Al resurfaces from his musings, Brother has already vanished up the hill. His scarlet coat is briefly visible on the porch before the door closes behind him, hiding him from view.

 _What did you see?_ Al wonders with an unpleasant trickle down his metaphorical spine. _What did you not want me to see?_

Barely a minute passes before Brother emerges again, their old notes absent. By the time Brother returns to them and settles down on Al’s other side, Al catches the first hints of smoke.

“That was fast,” Winry murmurs into the night. Already, the flickers of ocher light are spilling out from the windows.

“Yeah,” Brother agrees softly, blinking in surprise. His eyes are wide and amber and vaguely feline. Al suddenly remembers the cats—Socks, Suzie, Ruby, Marmalade, Felicia—and how they were all rehomed. Would they feel anything, knowing their old home was going up in fire? Or had they already forgotten the clumsy but tender care awarded to them in favor of their new owners?

It occurs to Al then, as the flames grow visible around the steps and caused the blackening wood to buckle, just how quiet the night is. There’s no crickets in the distance, no murmur of animals in the branches and bushes. There’s a horrible stillness to the night, a sense of inertia that counterpoints the swift movement of the fire, the crackle of heat and sparks. Flames creep up the sides in flickering orange tongues that leave black marks and sharp, snapping noises in their wake. Smoke curls slow and sinuous, flurries of embers sent flying into air.

There’s something transfixing about sitting here and watching. It reminds Al of the day that Ishval was declared a victory—ironically, it was just before they decided to seek out Teacher and just before they declared their intent. There was a firework show being hosted by some military folks in order to celebrate, though it was subtly implied that the affair was a show of support more than anything and that the whole ordeal was not quite optional...

_Everyone makes their way to town square as the sun began to sink low. Most people arrive in pickup trucks or cars, but others within closer distance walk, carrying quilts over their shoulders as pack mules would. It was just getting dark when they arrived with the Rockbells, with Uncle unfurling a massive, pilling quilt to protect them from the cool, dew-laden grass. As the officials begin setting up the fireworks, Granny and Uncle start up a mildly serious conversation, while Auntie pulls out a thermos of hot chocolate. The mugs she pours it into makes their way around slowly, clutched in their pudgy hands. Al, agonized over the fact that Dad would not be here to share it with them, instead passes his over to Brother, who in turn sent Al a concerned look. Unaware of the beverage’s significance, Winry sips cautiously at it and is quick to enjoy it. Brother gives his own mug a curious sniff but never drinks it, only allows it to sit in his lap and radiate steam. Auntie passes them a blanket to throw over themselves so they won’t be too cold. Den is sprawled out on the blankets, tongue lolling and tail slapping against the blanket._

_After the sky grow dark and chilly, the firework show begins. Den barks loudly in surprise, ears flat and eyes wild in bewilderment, before Granny quiets her down. Rockets whistle as they soar up before exploding in flares of brilliant, scintillating color and booming noises that rippled outwards. It’s absolutely fantastic—unlike anything Al ever saw. Colors fill the sky, many he can name and many he can’t. Entire rainbows unfurl in a gorgeous display of raw power, like watching lightning crack, like watching something burst into millions of pieces and being unable to look away. This is fire, after all, something dangerous and possibly lethal—and yet there’s a beauty to it, a strange sort of fascination that draws you in despite it all. The hues glitter, then flicker out to leave a thick patch of smoke in their wake, which is quickly refilled by another burst of light and sound. “Ooh”s and “aah”s radiate out from the crowd with each flare. The blanket slips from Al’s shoulders but he doesn’t notice._

_At the end, the grand finale goes off with an incessant burst of light and color that burns against Al’s corneas. He can’t even keep track of everything, all the exploding shapes and blazing letters that fill the air. Darkness clashes against the brightness, the cloud of smoke growing thicker and thicker with each detonation. It gets so loud that Al’s bones quake and his ears ring—then it’s suddenly all over, before Al’s spinning head can even process it._

_Several moments of silence pass before anyone can so much as breathe. The air is thick with the smell of gunpowder and smoke. Brother blinks dazedly, and for the first time in a long time he doesn’t look entirely morose. “That. Was. **Awesome**.”_

_“Awfully loud, though, wasn’t it?” Uncle remarks with a funny look up at the sky, which was now choked full of thick, ugly grey smoke. You can’t even see the stars, and that makes Al frown. How can something so beautiful leave such a mess?_

_Al gazes sullenly at the obscured sky. It would have been better to see the stars afterwards, and if the smell wasn’t so strong. “Is this gonna happen every night?”_

_“No.” It’s Auntie who says that, wrapping an arm around Winry and tugging her close, much to Winry’s bewilderment. “It only happens for special occasions.”_

_“Like winning a war?” Winry asks, squirming a little to get comfortable._

_Uncle and Granny snort in unison, but Auntie flashes a crooked little smile. “...yeah. Like winning a war.”_

_Brother gains a thoughtful look. “Are we winning another war soon?”_

_A somberness takes hold of her face then, and she looks forlornly at Uncle, whose face is still tilted up towards the sky as though he expects a storm to break and rain to pour down on them. Granny puffs from her pipe, silent, but there’s a hardness in her eyes at that. Brother looks at Winry, who blinks back uncertainly. Al scratches Den behind the ear, earning a few sloppy kisses on his hand._

_“If we’re lucky, we won’t have to,” Granny says finally, and that was the end of it._

A fresh burst of noise brings Al back to the present. Without warning, the windows _pop_ —the glass _shatters_ like a heartbreak and then spills over, raining down in a glittering cascade. They’re far enough away that it doesn’t matter, that it’s a distant thing that can’t hurt them. Still, he tenses a little. Ed and Winry barely keep themselves from jumping.

“What was _that_?” she demands, voice sharp with alarm. Her eyes are round, and the distant firelight glitters in her irises. A warm glow is suffused across her face.

Brother carefully folds his legs. His coat seems to swallow him whole, bloody red and vivid. “The windows blew out. ‘Cause of the change in air pressure and temperature.”

With the glass no longer there to keep them in, the flames are free to consume the pristine white exterior. Smoke billows out in a thick, blackening wave that marches up to the sky. Bright, brilliantly orange color overtakes the roof, the chimney, the windowpanes. Flaming pieces of wood crumble off from the roof, sending a fresh spray of embers into the sky and brings about more crackling. It brings to mind those fireworks, their raw beauty and visceral power. It makes sense, now, why fireworks get their name—this is the same force of nature, but not tempered and funneled into something dazzling beyond all words. This is the primal, unrefined destruction that mankind has feared and harnessed for hundreds of years, back since they lived in caves and hunted with spears.

The leaves of the apple tree ignite, suddenly. It goes up like dry parchment, spreading so fast that it leaves Al dizzy. Before he can even react, the fire dives down the rope swing and quickly engulfs the old tire hanging from it. He can’t smell the smoke or feel the heat, but he can just imagine the odor of burning rubber filling the air. At his side, Brother gags softly and brings a hand to his nose.

Winry chokes on a sob.

Al whirls around to look at her in surprise. Her eyes are glossy with tears that glitter in the firelight and stream down her flushed cheeks. Crap! When did she start _crying_? “W-Winry?”

“[Son of bitch.]” Brother cranes his neck around to peer at her, suddenly looking torn between wanting to bolt and remaining in place. With his hand still over his nose, his words come out slightly muffled. “What’s wrong? Why’re you crying?”

“I-I...” She sobs again, then sniffles. Her knees are hugged to her chest and tears dripping off her jaw. “I remember w-when I went on there t-that one time...” Blinking rapidly, she brings a hand up to her mouth and sobs against it. “...a-and you spun me around s-so fast that I t-threw up everywhere...”

He knows exactly what she’s talking about. It was not long after they adopted Socks into their family. They never really used the tire swing up until that point, and Winry pointed this out to them with a petulant huff. Brother, smirking with barely-concealed wickedness, had suggested that she use it, if it bothered her so much. As she was climbing up on it, he whispered to Al in feverish Xerxean that they should spin her around and see what happened, because he heard that a girl’s hair falls out if you do. To this day, Al isn’t entirely sure why he went along. Of course, it made Winry scream and cry and when she was able to stumble off drunkenly, she spilled her guts all over the ground. They got into quite a bit of trouble for that stunt.

“...seriously?” Brother’s face hardens into a scowl that is partially annoyed, partially disbelieving, and partially uncertain. “ _That’s_ what you’re crying about? You’re—You’re such a crybaby!”

“Brother!” Honestly! It’s one thing to be abrasive, but that’s just plain insensitive!

“She is!” Ed protests, a touch plaintive.

Then, for some reason, Winry starts laughing, even as tears stream down her face.

Fire roars endlessly as it engulfs the house, until its only a dark silhouette within the flames and a great column of smoke. All those years, all those memories... gone in an instant. It’s a large building, so you’d think it would have taken longer—but it feels like Al blinked and missed it.

The sound is relentless. It brings him back to the firework show finale, the explosive burst of noise and light and color that left him dizzy.

 _This is our finale_ , he thinks.

Abruptly, Brother stands up. Light counterpoints the shadows on his face so that it exaggerates the flintiness of his eyes. “We should go.”

Nodding, Al pulls himself upright. Gravity is conspiring to keep him rooted to his spot, to keep him from standing back up again. But even though the metal joints creak, he gets up anyway.

* * *

They return to find Uncle sitting on the porch step, scratching Den behind the ear with one hand and holding a steaming mug of hot tea in the other. The light is on, and it’s a bright, offensive yellow that looks artificial in the face of the warm, destructive firelight. He looks grim and tired, the same way Al imagines Brother and Winry to be, but thankfully he doesn’t look particularly upset. With weary blue eyes, he only watches as they silently approach, briefly scanning their collection of books and the solemnness of their expressions before heaving a noiseless but heavy sigh.

Sighing heavily, Uncle sets the mug down beside him. “It’s three in the morning.”

At Al’s side, Winry gulps loudly. Den blearily raises her head and parts her jaws in a wide yawn that shows off pointed teeth and black gums.

“We had stuff to take care of,” Brother says. The stack of books totters over his head, swaying precariously in his effort to keep them from falling over. Al has no idea what Brother was thinking, carrying so much. He can’t even _see_ over it.

“So it would seem.” Uncle glances over at where the flames are still raging in the distance. There’s so much smoke that you can hardly see the fire anymore. Al thinks it’s only a matter of time before there’s nothing left. “I had lot of fond memories in that house, you know.”

Guilt is quick to set in at that, a creepy-crawly feeling that would make him squirm if he were flesh. “We—”

“But it’s your house,” Uncle goes on, a touch listless. The apathy startles Al a bit, until he notes the deep, raw sadness in Uncle’s eyes. Al wonders if it holds the same meaning to Uncle, if burning it also adds a sense of finality to Dad’s death. Before he can ask the question, though, Uncle grabs his mug, rises to his feet with a grunt, and gestures with his head to the door. “C’mon. Off to bed with you all.”

“We’re not—” Brother breaks off with a wide yawn and a few bleary blinks. “— _tired_.”

“Alright.” Uncle opens the door anyway. Den perks her ears and scents the air. Perhaps there’s some smell inside the house that makes it inviting. “But you should at least come inside. It’s cold out.”

Al looks at Brother and Winry is askance, because they are the only ones who can feel the cold. Metal, though conductive of temperature, is not sensitive to it the way flesh is. Now that he pays closer attention, Winry is shivering just a bit, biting her lip in what is probably an attempt to keep her teeth from chattering (she’s wearing a jacket, but her legs are completely exposed). Meanwhile Brother blinks erratically in order to keep his eyes open.

“Okay,” Winry says, and stumbles up the steps. Uncle holds the door open for her. Brother grumbles as he follows after her, which in turn as Den rising to her feet and following after him, evidently curious. Al trails behind them, carefully ducking his head to accommodate the frame.

Uncle closes the door behind him as he comes in, then flicks the porch light off. “Is that all you decided to save? A few books?”

There’s nothing particularly accusatory in his tone as he says that. Nothing condemning or scathing. It’s carefully blank and more than a little sad, the way you are when you lose something you can’t get back. Al tries to read his face after setting his pile of books on the table, but Uncle doesn’t give much away.

“No. We took a lot more than that.” To prove his point, he cracks his breastplate open—carefully, so everything won’t start spilling out.

At this, Uncle’s brows rise. He doesn’t say anything, though. Only takes a slow sip of his tea.

Beside Al, Brother starts emptying his pockets onto the table. Lots of old photos, a pack of fountain pens, a few painted figurines, and a circlet reminiscent of peacock feathers. The last one makes Uncle arch a brow, but he doesn’t say anything as more and more memorabilia spills out onto the surface. Pictures of them as children, aging and growing in a flurry of snapshots. Then, finally, with a gravitas that can only be afforded to something you simultaneously loathe and cherish, the family portrait of all four of them.

Carefully, Al begins doing the same. Books end up piled high on the table in precarious towers. Xerxean artifacts soon litter the space beside them, varying from decorative plates or letter openers to hairpins and antique jewelry. The kitchen light glimmers across the occasional gilded surface. A packet of ancient coins, a vase, a shoebox full of letters. There’s even a Xerxean codex that was written, apparently, by an ancestor of theirs. Perhaps the one that first escaped Xerxes’s destruction. Dad used to use that as a reference for old recipes and holidays, an ancient religion and a long-lost alchemic artform. Most of the books are Dad’s research—research that he explicitly stated that they not look through, that they not trouble themselves over completing—with a few that belong to Mom (Brother wanted to leave them behind, but Al refused to leave something so invaluable to become ash).

“Quite the collection you’ve got there,” Uncle remarks as Al pulls out a decorative sword. The pummel is polished gold and bejeweled, while the sheath is an ancient treated leather that likely comes from camel hide.

Den sniffs curiously at an old photo album, which spurs Winry to move it out of the canine’s reach. “They weren’t even gonna go through it,” she announces snidely. “They were just gonna burn it all down—”

“Shut up,” Brother snaps.

Tired blue eyes rove the collection with a weary interest. Uncle’s gaze stalls on the shoebox of letters, to the point where Al wonders if they mean something, but he looks away before Al can inquire. “Alright. To bed all, of you.”

Brother looks absolutely indignant at that. “I’m not a little kid, dammit!”

“Fine. But just so you know, Ed, you do most of your growing in your sleep.”

A conflicted look crosses Brother’s face then, and it’s all Al can do to smother a laugh. This time, at least, Brother’s height sensitivity is working to Uncle’s advantage, because Ed ultimately blows out an annoyed breath before stomping off towards his room. The automail leg makes a prominent _thunk_ that betrays its weight.

“Night Dad,” Winry says as she follows him. She stifles a yawn into her hand. “Night Al.”

“Goodnight sweetheart.”

“Night Winry. Night Brother.”

The only response Al gets to that is a grunt as Brother disappears down the hall.

With his burden now delivered, Al feels absurdly lightweight. He closes his breastplate back up and watches silently as Uncle drains his mug. Den’s tail _thwaps_ lightly against the table leg as it wags.

Moving as a ghost would, Uncle drifts over to the kitchen. The mug, presumably finished, is set under the faucet. There is a brief rush as water that is almost immediately cut off, followed by a loud splash, a wet splat of the teabag hitting the sink, and the swirling gurgle of the drain whisking it all away. “Are you going to stay out here?”

He doesn’t ask about sleep anymore. No one does. Sleep has become an illusion, a flicker of a memory in the back of Al’s soul. Steel, though silent and unmoving and infinitely patient, is not made to rest.

Al shrugs as best he can in this body. “Someone needs to sort through all this.”

_It’s better than just waiting for the sun to rise, at least._

A towel is pulled from the rack. Uncle uses it to clean the mug out, the squeak of cloth against porcelain the only sound in the area aside from Den’s breathing. “Sarah found the train tickets.”

He can’t help but start at this. Brother purchased those this afternoon and presumably hid them inside a pre-packed suitcase. Did that mean Auntie went through their things, or did Brother leave them out carelessly? Either way, Uncle knows they’re leaving first-thing tomorrow. “...oh.”

“Can I ask what the plan is?” The cabinet is opened and the mug is put away. Uncle retrieves the teabag. “Assuming you have one?”

Something about the way Uncle says that makes Al’s nonexistent spine prickle. “We have a plan.”

“Which is?”

The plan, as it is, is not quite as cohesive as they might have liked. It basically consists of tracking down Dad’s contacts, focusing on alchemists with a specialization in relevant areas. The closest is James Majhal, who lives in a small village just north of Kaumafy called Bumble Holllow, so that’s their first stop. If that doesn’t turn up any leads, then they’ll probably head to Giyoir, where they can find Xenotime and Nash Tringham just to the south. Then there’s Lujon Macintyre and Grennich, which they’ll have to access Metso to get to, and that will consist of walking and carriage rides because there’s no railroad connecting Metso to anywhere else. After that... they’ll just have to keep looking, Al supposes. With all these brilliant minds, at least _one_ of them should have a lead or an answer. It’s not practical at all, Al will admit, but it’s their best chance at the moment.

Al tells this to Uncle as he sorts the books based on content. Dad’s research goes on one chair, Mom’s on another. He finds that there’s actually a few journals that jointly filled by the both of them, and places them in a different category entirely.

Throughout the whole exchange, Uncle leans with his lower back against the counter and his arms crossed, bobbing his head absently. After Al has finished, his mouth presses into a thin line, eyes carefully averted towards the ceiling. “Do you two plan on visiting, while you’re out on this fantastic journey of yours?”

This takes Al aback somewhat. He pauses, one hand holding the pack of expensive fountain pens. “Uh. Yeah. I mean, we might not be gone that long—”

“It’s a difficult thing you two are shooting for,” Uncle interrupts solemnly. “Expecting it to be over quickly is naïve, and I think you know that, Al.”

...yes. He does. If it were easy to reverse the effects of human transmutation, there wouldn’t be so much caution against it. Furthermore, they don’t even know what _happened_ to his body in the first place, where it went and how it was taken. Figuring that out alone might take years.

But he’s resigned himself to that. Brother has already vowed to restore Al’s body and he knows there’s few things that can dissuade Edward Hohenheim when he puts his mind to something. And besides, they’re also going to find a way to get Brother’s limbs back—automail is painful and inconvenient, despite the dexterity and quality only it can provide. It was all Al’s idea, trying to bring back Dad. Brother lost his leg in the process, but then _willingly_ gave up his arm to save Al, and, well, Al is not going to let his older brother suffer because _he_ came up with a stupid idea three years ago.

“We’ll visit,” Al promises.

A weak twitch in the corner of Uncle’s mouth is the only indication of appeasement. “That’s good to hear. I don’t think Van would forgive me otherwise.”

Suddenly, Al remembers the day Dad died, when he asked Uncle to look after them in his stead. He looks at Uncle now and thinks the man may have aged twenty years instead of two. A fresh clench of guilt goes through him. How it must have torn Uncle up, to see them both tear themselves apart with such reckless abandon. “...Uncle—”

“I think I’ll turn in for the night,” Uncle announces abruptly. He straightens and drifts over to the hallway, then pauses with one hand on the light switch. “Are you going to sort them out here or take it all somewhere else?”

“Uh.” Al looks back at the clutter of belongings on the table. This is all they have left of their former life, of Dad’s life. Maybe keeping it voids the whole point of burning down their house, but he can’t let it go now, surely. Winry’s right about one thing—some things are meant to be kept. “I mean, here is as good a place as any...”

He can’t just—leave it all out like this.

“...okay.” Uncle’s hand leaves the light switch. “Night Al.”

“Goodnight.”

* * *

Ed’s dreams are full of falling through time and space and feeling himself unraveling particle by particle.

He wakes with a broken gasp in his throat. Phantom sensations plague him—his ports throb where there was once flesh and bone as though the limbs are still there, newly sheered from his torso. And he can still see, can still  _feel_ —smoky black hands unraveling his flesh and a Cheshire grin branded into his mind and a giant eye that feels like it’s opened up inside his soul—

**(—the composition of the earth’s lower mantel consists of ferropericlase and silicate perovskite, appearing about 420 to 1680 mi beneath the earth’s surface, calcium silicate perovskite is unstable at the earth’s surface—)**

No. _No_. His head throbs. Ed squeezes his eyes against the pressure blooming inside his skull. He can feel his heart throbbing hotly in his ears, breath stabbing in his lungs like cold knives.

**(—lightning has a temperature of 55540 F o, that’s five times hotter than the surface of the sun, which reaches a temperature of 10340 Fo—)**

It _hurts_. He clenches his teeth so hard he thinks they’ll break because it feels like his head is splitting open and it won’t _stop_. Why won’t it _stop_? It feels like someone decided to beat it with a hammer until the soft cerebral flesh is sent flying everywhere and hey! there’s his brain—all over the fucking wall. It is gooey and soft and so, so fragile, balanced only on a brainstem, about three-point-three pounds, did you know? It makes up about two percent of a human being’s body-weight and contains over eighty-six billion neurons alone and he fried them all with human transmutation and the Gate because he’s a goddamned _idiot._

**(—the densest known stable element on earth is osmium, ammonium dichromate is created by volcanoes, the rarest mineral on earth is astatine, corvusite has a specific gravity of two-point-eighty-two, pure gold is soft enough to be molded by hand—)**

“Shut _up_.” He tangles his fingers in his hair and tugs _hard_.

A few minutes pass. The pulsing in his skull is _excruciating_ , like someone decided to crack it open and pour molten iron into the cavity. He wants to _scream_ and tear himself open because it’s _too damn much_ , too much information, too many voices in his head and they all sound like his _own_ but they’re _not_ and—

I T _H U R T S_

 _Breathe_.

Above him, the ceiling is heady and swaying and so, so _white_. Not the featureless whiteness of Truth’s hall, just pale and smooth, as plaster should be. Soft morning light suffuses across it, pouring in from where the drapes have been left open. He can still feel the white-hot smile of Truth branded into his mind, but the pain fades into something more manageable, an itch against his skull instead of fire-bright agony.

Breathe.

Slowly, he sits up. His stomach lurches violently in protest before settling back down a moment later. The weight of his automail arm tugs hard on his shoulder. He carefully tugs the metal fingers free from his bangs and succeeds in managing not to rip out too much hair.

Steel joints glitter as he tugs the stray tufts free and deposits them into the nearby trashcan. There’s a faint twinge from his port, in the junction where his leg transitions from flesh to metal. Arm and leg. His willing sacrifice and unwitting toll, respectively. Exchanged for knowledge he didn’t want or ask for but was almost stupid enough to demand more of. If he had any idea of how _torturous_ it would be, to carry all this around inside his head...

Al doesn’t remember the Gate.

Ed swallows thickly. Very slowly, he raises both hands, and presses them flat against one another. Flesh against steel, palm against palm, fingers aligned and pointed heavenward.

Breathe. In. Out.

**(—the flow of energy in this world is an endless circadian rhythm, like the snake eating its own tail, All is One and One is All, just tap into it, you know how—)**

Fucking _no_.

The sooner they get Al’s body back, the better.

Outside, the sun is rising over the hillside. There’s something grey about the sky, smoky and wan, a sort of lifelessness that has sucked the wonder and vitality from the town. In the distance, he can make out the smoking detritus of what was once their home. It almost startles him, because even with the knowledge that it won’t be there, even with the memory of having watched it burn and crackle and devolve into kindling—some naïve part of him still expects it to be standing white and lovely on the hill in the distance. The tire swing turning ever-so-slowly, causing the branch to droop beneath its weight. And there’s Dad, waiting on the porch, huffing at them for being late, or maybe at himself for just realizing they haven’t been in the house the whole time, because he’s an absentminded dumbass—

But all that’s there is blackened, twisted wood and the remains of what was once theirs.

 _No going back._  His eyes are watering with the memory of smoke, that’s all. Nothing else. _No going back._

He curls his hands into fists. The cold metal against his skin makes him shiver and the Gate tickles insidiously at the back of his mind. This thing, or whatever it is that it left behind in him, has lodged in his brain like a splinter. But that’s fine. He can endure it. He’s always been able to endure.

_I have to be strong._

* * *

Risembool seems so distant as they pull away from the station. Slowly but surely, the green hills retreat into the distance, as though a fuzzy dream you’ve just woken up from. The first time Dad took him and Al out of town, Ed had been in awe of this phenomenon, and wondered to himself if maybe the whole countryside was just some illustrious fantasy.

He gets that same sensation now, as he watches the rural landscape blur pass him. City folks always call it “idyllic”, as though there’s something phenomenal about endless grass and clear skies and farms that smell of sheep shit. No one in the countryside glorifies the countryside. All the glorification is done by people who don’t know the countryside for what it really is and think it some fantastical escape from their dreary reality. But it’s not perfect, because nothing is. It’s not the sort of place you need to run to when things get hard. Towns like Risembool are small and stagnant and they entrench their roots deep into you, to the point where it’s hard to wrest yourself free. That’s why you have to struggle your way out, before you end up trapped forever.

 _The choice is yours_ , that colonel said.

 _We’re moving forward_ , Ed thinks.

“It’s been a while since we last left Risembool, huh Brother?” Al’s helmet is turned to peer out the window. The metal of it glimmers under the sunlight.

“Yeah,” Ed agrees. The last time they were on a train, they were both whole and well, returning form Dublith with a hairbrained scheme boiling in their minds. He places his hands flat on his lap and tries not to look at the white gloves he’s wearing. People might not figure out what they did just from knowing he has a prosthetic arm, but if they connect that and Al’s body... well, it’d be better if people didn’t connect the dots. So.

“Does it _always_ look like that?” At Ed’s side, Winry has her head craned to peer out the window, eyes comically wide. Unlike them, she’s never been outside Risembool (perhaps another reason she shouldn’t be coming along, but no matter how vehemently Ed tried to protest, he was only rewarded with a long, ranting speech and a wrench to the head), so the sight still has meaning to her.

“Pretty much.” Between them, his suitcase and her duffle bag are wedged, erecting a barrier that makes the seat a tad tight and uncomfortable. The glass of the windowpane reflects a faint shadow of her expression—the wonder in her eyes, the awe that slackens her jaw. He bites the inside of his cheek. “...you didn’t have to come, Winry.”

“I know.” Her voice is resoundingly chipper. She turns back to him with a bright, fierce smile. “But I decided that I’m going to support you and Al, in any way I can.”

Unsure exactly how to react to that, he sends a helpless glance Al’s way. Al only lets out a tinny sort of chuckle, which is largely unhelpful. Seeing as he’s outnumbered here, Ed settles for scowling. “So you had to come with us. Sure. Yeah. _That_ makes sense.”

“I didn’t _have_ to do anything,” she sniffs, feigning prissiness. Despite the sarcasm in her tone, there’s a glint in her eyes of complete seriousness. “I _wanted_ to. There’s a difference!”

Goddamn stubborn gearheads.

“Well, I, for one, am very glad you’re coming,” Al says brightly. You can _hear_ the sycophantic smile in his voice.

Winry beams at him, bright and sweet and entirely deceitful. When they were little, she was always nicer to Al because Al believed her when she pretended to burst into tears. Being the absolute sweetheart he is, Al has no idea how thoroughly she’s wrapped him around her finger. “Aw! Thanks Al. You’re so _considerate_.”

It takes all of Ed’s willpower not to roll his eyes. “How did you convince Auntie and Uncle to let you go again?”

Pride flashes across her face and she leans back with a little laugh. “I told them I there were people who needed me and I wanted to help them. Dad groaned and said I was too much like Mom. Mom said I actually got it from him, and then Granny said I got it from both of them _and_ her.”

He can imagine how that conversation went. Granny letting out an exasperated sigh, puffing from her pipe and peering down her nose through her spectacles. Auntie putting her hands over her face and groaning, lamenting her own daughter’s sheer stubbornness. Uncle grinning sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck but ultimately so, so proud.

Her smile dims, suddenly, and her gaze flicks over to the window again, a somberness flashes across her expression. “...we’re really leaving, huh?”

Oh god. “You’re not gonna cry, are you? You’re not a leaky faucet, goddammit.”

“Brother!” Al cries out, appalled.

But Winry lets loose a little laugh, flashing him a smile that is somehow bright but sad. “It’s okay. Ed’s just too emotionally constipated to admit he’s glad to have me around.”

For the record, Ed resents that. He only huffs, neither confirming or denying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun writing this you wouldn't even believe. My only lament is that I wasn't able to actually post this in October.
> 
> As always, questions and comments are appreciated and clarification is always available if needed. Next time, plot advancement!
> 
> Sincerely yours,  
> The Immortal Moon


	11. Fathers, Lock Up Your Daughters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There’s a whole bunch of rumors surrounding Bumble Hollow and October,” explains Carl boisterously. “The main one being that there’s a ghoul”—he brings hand hands up to imitate claws, grin stretching to a sinister width—“who hunts the countryside and carts off young girls late at night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays everybody!

_“All things truly wicked start from innocence.”_  
—Ernest Hemingway

 

_~1911_

Even though Kaumafy is only a couple hundred miles north of Risembool, there are vast differences. For one thing, it’s far more compact—there’s no rippling green farmland or scattered barns here and there, or sheep pens that dot the expanse. Instead, the town proper is clustered in on itself, with narrow, cobblestone streets and bustling shops. Where Risembool’s main feature is farming and sheep-rearing, Kaumafy’s is its marketplace, where people from all over the East gather to peddle their wares. Kaumafy’s marketplace has a sort of local fame to it, the kind you’d hear about as far as New Optain but never catch word of in Central.

Once, Dad brought Ed and Al to Kaumafy in order to buy supplies for their experiments. Ed was barely six and the vast, colorful crowd made his spin. He could hardly believe his father’s claim that Kaumafy is actually smaller than their hometown—not when all these people were here, packed into one place, practically bursting at the seams.

“Stay close to me,” Dad had said, and gripped Ed’s tiny hand in his own large, rough one. “You don’t want to get separated in a crowd like this.”

Ed finds himself thinking of this the moment Winry squeals and darts into the nearest hardware store. He merely blinks one moment, and then next the bell at the front door chimes loudly. Al actually does a double-take with the spot where she was once standing.

 _This is why we don’t bring gearheads_ , thinks Ed with a sigh. There is a tinkling chime as Al disappears into the store, bowing his head low to avoid crashing into the doorframe. A few moments later, he returns with a flailing Winry being dragged by the back of her jacket.

“But the walnut wood handles!” she’s wailing, flailing her arms and kicking with her feet in an attempt to struggle free. It’s fairly pointless, though. Al is a giant, seven-foot metal suit of armor. A scrawny twelve-year-old girl can’t compete with something like that, wrench or no. “The Moloch spanners! The ball-peen hammers! The _kerosene_ _blowtorches_! Alphonse, how can you be so _cruel_?”

(The idea of Winry with a blowtorch sends a bolt of terror through Ed, and he thanks his good graces for Alphonse)

“The marketplace is really crowded,” says Al as he drops her beside Ed. If Ed were any less gracious, he might have burst out laughing at the disgruntled pout on her face, but he’s well aware that her duffle bag is home to some particularly nasty tools that are only friendly to machinery, so he keeps quiet. “We need to stick together or we might get lost.”

Huffing, she sends a longing look at the hardware store’s windows. Several tools are on display, although Ed can’t determine what half of them are, only that he vaguely recognizes them from the Rockbell’s workshop. Apparently they must very desirable, the way a first-addition alchemy journal would be to him. “Can’t we just go in for a _second_?”

“Winry—”

“C’mon, _please_?” Seeing as she’s not winning over Al for once, she whirls around and aims her pout at Ed. Wow, she must be desperate. “Better tools mean better automail!”

As if he’s going to be that easily persuaded. Ed crosses his arms. “We don’t have the money to waste on useless junk like this.”

Immediately, the pleading snaps from her face, quickly replaced to a ripple of intense fury. Too late, he realizes his mistake. “... _useless junk_ —”

“What Brother _means_ is,” intervenes Al, ever diplomatic and holding his hands out to keep Winry from physically dismembering him (Ed has the _best_ little brother), “we only have a limited amount of money. All we have is what’s left of Dad’s nest egg, so we need to be pragmatic about it.”

At the mention of that, she sobers a bit, her lips pursing into a thin line and her eyes averting away. Slowly but surely, the tension leaves her shoulders, until she is crossing her arms and pointedly looking away. Ed wouldn’t quite call her remorseful, but she doesn’t look inclined to run off a spending spree anymore, or bludgeon him to death with her wrench. So... victory? Maybe? She’s sullener than he would have liked.

“I mean, it’s not like you need it.” To her disbelieving look, Ed only shrugs and crosses his arms. “You’re good enough without fancy tools.”

“Nice save, Ed.”

Sarcasm drips from her tone, but he chooses to ignore it. “Thank you.”

“C’mon.” Al creaks as he turns back to the crowd, the bustling people and the brightly-colored stalls and the merchants hawking their wares to passerby patrons. “Let’s go see if we can get a carriage to Bumble Hollow.”

The crowd isn’t nearly as bad as Ed remembered it to be, although in fairness, he was five at the time and his biggest fear, as he squeezed Al’s hand and gripped desperately at Dad’s fingers, was being trampled. By virtue of the height he’s gained since then (and he _has_ grown, thank you!), he’s able to muscle his way through the throng of people. There gaps are small enough for him to slide through this way and that, but it doesn’t change the fact that there’s _so many people_. And this many bodies packed into a narrow street gives off heat that only culminates upon the unusual warmth of today’s weather. Between that and Ed’s long-sleeved, fleece-coated ensemble, it isn’t long before perspiration gathers on his forehead and slides down to his collarbone. Plus the smell of sweat is not particularly appealing, either. It’s odorous and mixes cloyingly with the aroma of spices and flowers and other perfumed wares that are being featured by the stalls that line the streets, all of them brightly-hued and occupied by loud-mouthed shopkeepers. He doesn’t see a carriage service anywhere—it’s probably on the other end of the marketplace.

After darting to avoid a family with young children, a hand suddenly grips the sleeve of his coat. He whirls around in alarm, half-bringing up his fist in anticipation, but it’s just Winry, her head bowed as she pants, her other hand planted flat on her knee. Her ponytail seems to have slipped a bit loose.

“ _Finally_ ,” she gasps, tilting her head back up. Her bangs are stickily plastered to her forehead, her cheeks flushed. She’s wearing only a tank top and skirt, but even she’s feeling the heat. “I’ve been trying to catch up to you for the last five minutes!”

“Really?” He’d assumed she was right behind him. Whoops.

“Yes!” She levels him with a particularly intense look. Not the threatening kind that involves wrenches, but intimidating nonetheless. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“No.” Shrugging, he glances over his shoulder, expecting Al to be right at her heels or at least joining them, but there’s a conspicuous lack of armor within his line of sight. A trickle of worry runs down Ed’s spine. “Where’s Al?”

Taking off-guard, Winry straightens and peers over her shoulder. The confusion on her face transitions to wide eyes and apprehension. “He... was right behind me...”

Ed’s gaze rakes through the crowd again, the beginnings of panic thrumming through his nerves. Seven-foot suits of armor don’t just vanish, right? Right. Unless somebody figured it out and carted Al off and—

Relief crashes over him when he spots Al’s armored head jutting out from the crowd. His little brother is trying his best to wade through the clog of people, helmet-head turning this way and that as he tries to navigate. It amazes Ed that people aren’t immediately parting around something so massive, but instead cluster around it in an attempt to squeeze through. Are these people stupid, or just stubborn?

“Oh geez,” Ed sighs, all but sagging under the weight of his own relief. Winry follows his gaze and the tension leaves her shoulders too. “I don’t think he’s gonna catch up anytime soon.”

“No kidding.” There’s a hint of an amused laugh in Winry’s voice. She gaze slides off to the side, her lip scrunching up on one side. “There’s a stall right over there. Let’s wait for him.”

The stall she’s referring to is a modest wooden construction with a sunnily bright yellow-and-white striped awning to cast shade over it. In bold letters reads “Young and Wesley’s Honey Emporium”, so big you could probably read it from miles away. A few bottles of golden liquid have been set up on the counter, beneath signs that proclaim “all-natural” and “best quality in Amestris” and list their prices (all of which strike Ed as rather expensive). There’s also a tray that has a “free samples” sign set up overtop, which he assumes to the mean the sparkling clean miniature glasses that have been placed there, each one barely filled halfway. Several wooden crates have been stacked behind the counter, presumably all product. The owner, or at least whom Ed assumes to be the owner, is a dark-skinned man with long, pointed nose and an apron draped over his wiry frame. He’s turned away and saying something to someone Ed can’t see. It’s close enough by, and beats standing in the middle of a crowd, waiting around to be jostled by strangers.

He glances back to Al, who seems to have caught sight of them by now. Waving, Ed gestures off to the left, indicating the stall. Al follows his gaze, then turns back with a nod.

Muscling their way out of the crowd is harder than through, because at least if you’re going through, you’re following the flow of people. Breaking that flow tends to make people disgruntled and far less likely to move out of the way to accommodate you. He and Winry end up jostled no less than seven times before they ultimately reach the stall.

Finally, Ed collapses into the nearest seat, slumping against the counter surface and dropping his suitcase at his side. The wood is cool and refreshing against the underside of his chin, and his slick forehead is immediately grateful for the introduction of shade. When he’d chosen the coat, it was because he anticipated colder weather—because it’s freaking _autumn_ , and this is around the time when the temperatures start to plummet, where the air turns crisp and cool and biting. The sheer number of _people_ only makes it worse. It should not be this fucking muggy.

“You kids look a little disgruntled there,” remarks the shopkeeper with a rich, warm humor in his tone. There’s a sharp, intelligent look about his eyes, a shrewdness that Ed would admire if he were currently not suffering under the weight of the humidity. Why is it so damn _humid_?

Winry laughs weakly as she slides into the seat next to Ed. He glances at the barely-filled glasses of golden liquid. It doesn’t look viscous enough to be honey. Maybe it’s honey-based? There’s a faint smell in the air that reminds Ed vaguely of shoe polish. “The crowd is... a bit much,” Winry admits.

Yes, the crowd had been a lot. Lots of sweaty people packed into one place, combining with the strangely warm weather to create a unique sort of hell. Ed could really use a drink right now, and the sign says free samples, so why not? He takes the nearest glass and downs it all in a single gulp. The overwhelming sweetness strikes him—

“Hey, kid! Don’t drink that!”

—and then he’s coughing and spluttering because all of a sudden it _burns_ like ten-thousand infernos. He gags so hard it has him doubling over. “What the _fuck_!?”

“Ed!” The pitch of concern in Winry’s voice stabs his eardrums, simply because of how close she is. Her hand grips his shoulder urgently and shakes him. He wants to tell her to stop but it hurts too much. “What’s wrong? What happened? Are you _okay_?”

“It _buuuurns_...”

Someone—Ed doesn’t know who, because he’s too focused on the horrid sensation currently wreaking havoc on his mouth and throat—takes the glass back. “Yeah... that’s Bärenjäger.” There’s shuffling, and then the shopkeeper calls, “Hey Carl, get the kid a glass of water, yeah?”

“Bärenjäger?” Winry repeats as she heaves Ed back upright. He slumps back against the counter, groaning into the hardwood. The burning is not the sort you’d associate with heat or spice—it’s more like that time he scraped his knee open and Dad dabbed it with a cloth soaked in rubbing alcohol. Only that had stung, and this just _aches_.

“It’s a hard liquor,” elaborates the shopkeeper as the man presumably named Carl, who is pale and sports a curling blond mustache, sets a glass of water down in front of Ed. Assuming that the water is meant to ease the infernal burning, Ed is quick to pounce upon it and gulp it down. The frosty coolness is a sweet relief. “Really not something kids should be drinking, much less downing all at once like that.”

Clanking has Ed glancing over his shoulder to see Al approaching, looking disgruntled but otherwise unbothered. It sparks a wave of guilt and an admittedly horrible twinge of envy when he realizes that Al can’t feel the heat. “Sorry! I tried to just go around but this armor is bulky and—” Something on Ed’s face must give away his misery, because his eyes immediately shimmer with concern. “Brother? Are you okay?”

Polishing off the last of the water, Ed sets it down hard against the counter, the clink of it audible. The burning has mellowed into something insidious but manageable. Still, the memory is far too fresh. “Alcohol is horrible, Al!”

If Al could blink dumbly, he probably would. “What?”

Winry’s hand arm comes to drape across his shoulders in what is probably meant to be a gesture of comfort, but ends up feeling vaguely patronizing. “Have you successfully learned the horrors of hard liquor, Ed?”

Huffing his annoyance, Ed shoves her arm off. Alcohol _is_ horrible—almost on par with milk in its utter terribleness. “It’s not like I did it on purpose! Why the hell wasn’t it _labelled_?”

Clearing his throat, the shopkeeper jerks his head subtly over to the sign. Ed glances at it and sees “Bärenjäger” written over “free samples”.

“Well— how was I supposed to know what that is?” Ed snaps, then slumps back against the counter. His mouth feels weirdly tender and he cannot for the life of him comprehend why someone would _willingly_ drink something so vile.

Sighing lightly, the shopkeeper takes the emptied glass back and slips it beneath the counter. “See, Carl, this is why we should’ve gone with free samples of mead.”

“Mead?” Al repeats, just a touch curious. How can he forget about Ed’s misery so _quickly_?

“It’s another type of alcohol,” explains the shopkeeper easily, as though alcohol isn’t something disgusting and horrid. Adults, Ed decides, are absolute idiots. “‘Honey wine’, they call it sometimes. It’s _much_ weaker than Bärenjäger. Much less expensive, too.”

“We also have less of it in-stock, Martin,” Carl points out a little huffily. “And don’t you know how supply and demand works? The mead is much more valuable right now!”

“I know about supply and demand.” There’s a touch of fondness in Martin’s tone. Ed is beginning to think they’ve forgotten about him entirely. Bastards. “And we’ll get a new shipment from Bumble Hollow tomorrow.”

Winry straightens at that, eyes bright with alertness. “Did you say Bumble Hollow?”

Her interest draws Carl back into the conversation. “Oh yeah! We get all of our honey from Bumble Hollow. Locally-sourced, all organic, and straight from the best apiarists this side of Central!”

The unfamiliar word has Ed furrowing his brows. Al and Winry exchange a bewildered look.

“Beekeepers,” elaborates Martin with a note of amusement. “Bumble Hollow is famous for two things—their flowers and their honey farms.”

Carl leans forward a little with a wink. “Say, if you kids are interested in free samples, I can grab some from the back.”

Martin gives Carl a light whack on the shoulder. “We can’t sell mead to kids, you dolt!”

“Could be they’re buying for their parents,” suggests Carl breezily.

“Doesn’t matter!”

“Well, I was _actually_ referring to the blueberry honey,” says Carl to Martin. Then, turning back to them, he says brightly, “It’s one of our best-sellers. Bumble Hollow honey is one of the few brands of monofloral honey that doesn’t have to be imported, you see.”

That means absolutely nothing to Ed. Judging from the blankness of Winry and Al’s expressions, he’s not the only one. After all, how can you possibly blend honey and blueberries? That just doesn’t make _sense_.

“Uh...” Winry is the only one brave enough to operate under the façade of understanding. “Sure?”

Excitement swells inside Carl and he claps his hands together so loudly that Ed jumps. “Fantastic! I’ll get a jar!”

As Carl disappears into the back, Martin leans over the counter with curling smirk on his face and one hand on his hip. He seems more amused than exasperated by his partner, or perhaps the whole situation. “Monofloral honey is when the bees only pollinate one specific type of plant or flower. As a result, the honey gains a specific quality based on that flower.”

“That’s fascinating,” Ed drawls without really meaning it. “Say—Bumble Hollow. You wouldn’t happen to know where we could get a ride there, would you?”

Martin’s expression is quick to dim, the smirk pulling into a thin line. He straightens and scratches the back of his neck, suddenly unwilling to meet their eyes. Ed’s eyes narrow. That’s never a good sign. “...would you be willing to wait until the end of the month to go there?”

Okay... _Definitely_ not suspicious. “No. Why?”

Before Martin can answer, Carl returns with a jar of dark amber honey. There’s a vaguely purplish touch to the hue that has Ed raising a brow. He’s only ever known honey to come in bright, liquid golden. “Here we are! The latest batch!”

Ignoring Carl and his enthusiasm, Ed leans forward pointedly. “Why should we wait a month before going to Bumble Hollow?”

Puzzlement flashes across Carl’s face, and he glances at Martin. Martin purses his mouth, averting his gaze. Then a mischievous grin flashes across Carl’s face. He plants his hands on his hips and tilts his head back to chuckle, deeply and loudly. “Oh, boy! Don’t tell me you’re spinning your ghost stories to our customers now!”

“Ghost stories?” Al repeats, a touch incredulous.

“There’s a whole bunch of rumors surrounding Bumble Hollow and October,” explains Carl boisterously. “The main one being that there’s a ghoul”—he brings hand hands up to imitate claws, grin stretching to a sinister width—“who hunts the countryside and carts off young girls late at night.” Then he bursts out into a fresh fit of laughter so intense that he slaps the counter. Ed feels the strike reverberate through the hardwood. “Imagine!”

Imagine indeed! That has to be the stupidest thing Ed’s heard in quite a while now.

But it only gets stupider. Martin crosses his arms grimly, as though he actually believes it. “It’s not funny, Carl.”

Though still skeptical, there’s a newfound wariness in Winry’s frown. “Have people actually... y’know, _seen_ this ghoul?”

“Of course not.” Carl elbows Martin in the ribs with a playful smile, but Martin is pointedly unmoved. “There’s no such things as ghouls!”

“No kidding,” Ed adds. It’s one thing to entertain urban legends to tell at bonfires, when you’re little and you haven’t realized yet how little evidence there is to support the supernatural. “It’s completely unscientific!”

Martin casts him a wary look. “Maybe so... but girls really _have_ gone missing around this time.”

He says it so seriously that Ed can’t tell if he’s kidding or not.

“I’m not saying it’s a ghost or a ghoul or whatever,” says Martin darkly, “but there’s _something_ that goes on around this time. That’s why I only send delivery _boys_ out there. Whatever it is never targets boys.”

There’s absolutely no scientific basis for this whatsoever. Ed doesn’t cast a surreptitious glance at Winry. He doesn’t because he’s not worried. He’s not.

“We have a family friend who lives there,” Al explains. “And we desperately need to see him. Are you sure there isn’t any way we could get there?”

Carl smiles pleasantly, teeth shining beneath his shaggy flaxen mustache. “Well, the carriage services don’t really take tourists down there this time of year. But I think we can arrange to have you hitch a ride with our delivery boy. What do you think, Martin?”

But Martin doesn’t say a word. He only bobs his head absently and retreats into the back of the stall. Ed tries not to let that mean more than it should.

* * *

The carriage ride is an experience in bumpy, rocky country roads and just how much havoc they can reap on the common wheel. Al feels every little jerk and jolt, having to grip the side of the carriage in order to keep from flying out. Roots snake out into the road, unseen for the thick blanket of flame-colored leaves that have been shed by the branches en mass, adding a soft crunching to the roll of the wheels. He gazes out at the trees, at the thick oaks interspersed by sinuous white birch and unassuming elm and sprawling-branched walnut. Acorns also litter the forest floor, many with their caps separated from the main nut. Occasionally, he catches a squirrel or a chipmunk skittering up a tree, or a rabbit leaping off into the distance. Between the fiery crown of branches, the sky is starting to deepen into a smoky sort of blue, the sun dipping out of view.

Brother is privy to none of this. At some point early on, he drifted off, falling against Al’s arm, which he is currently using as a makeshift pillow. Every now and again, when the carriage jerks, Al checks to make sure Brother is still in place, hasn’t been jostled or awakened suddenly. It’s actually remarkable to him that Brother has managed to sleep through the entire journey. While it’s true that Ed has always been a deep sleeper, it still puzzles him, and there’s an undercurrent of worry there too, because Brother seems to be sleeping a lot now lately. Winry once proposed that it might be an early-onset case of narcolepsy, but Granny insisted that such a diagnosis is a bit extreme and that Ed’s sleeping habits aren’t a malady of any kind.

Across from then, Winry has set her duffle bag on her lap to act as a weight so that, instead of worrying about being jerked out of the carriage, she can focus on swinging her gaze this way and that to take in the scenery. She attempted to start a conversation with the driver, but he ignored her for the most part and she’s since fallen silent. There’s tension in her shoulders, and her eyes scan the area with more alertness than someone simply enjoying the scenery. The ghoul-story has affected her more than she would like to admit.

As the carriage stutters along, she lets out a soft gasp. Al turns to follow her wide-eyed gaze.

Some of the trees are raked with deep, furrowing marks. _RUN AWAY_ , one reads in sharp, shaky letters.

Oh.

Luckily, there is little time to let the warning sink in, because they reach the town right about then. The buildings are small and quaint and heavily interspersed, not unlike Risembool. However, there’s far less of them, the town covering quite a bit of distance but not nearly as dense in population. Al doesn’t see anything that resembles a town hall or a records office, or even a post office. Instead he sees houses, a few shops here and there, and flowers—lots of flowers. A whole field’s worth of wildflowers out in the distance, blanketing it in a pastel rainbow. Some people even prop out flowerpots or trim bushes near their houses, and there are tangled growths that he recognizes as blackberry bushes creeping up the side of a few residences.

“We’ll be heading to the Danforth apiary,” informs the driver. It’s the first time he’s said anything since they first got on. “Do you want to get out here, or wait until we get there?”

“Er.” Al looks at Winry, who doesn’t seem to notice anything beyond her own trembling shoulders and sharp breathing. He looks at Brother, who is still dead to the world. Well, okay then. He’s not really the type to make judgement calls like this, but... “How far off is the, er, the apiary?”

“Not too far.” He doesn’t offer any explanation as to what an apiary is, and Al is suddenly too hesitant to ask.

Distantly, he can see a flower shop around the corner that boasts some exquisite-looking roses, ranging in hues from bloody red to blushing pink to an exotic lavender hue. An old woman with wavy hair emerges from the shop to straighten them out. He turns back to the driver. “I guess we can wait until then.”

An apiary, as it turns out, seems to be a house whose front yard is populated by dozens of small white boxes, all of them particularly squat and unassuming. Al spies someone meandering about the area in a heavy-looking white suit, face concealed by a veiled hat of some kind. As they approach, the person in the suit looks up from the box they’re at and waves.

The carriage grinds to a halt. Winry flashes a weak smile before swinging her duffle bag and dismounting, thanking the driver meekly as she does. Al turns to his side and nudges Ed. “Brother. Wake up. We’re here.”

Brother grunts and shifts.

“Ed.” He jerks his arm. Brother sways unsupported for a moment, then falls back against Al’s gauntlet. Al sighs.

He pushes Ed away, holding him upright with one hand as he carefully dismounts the carriage. Apologizing silently, Al quickly and suddenly pulls his arm back. He winces as Brother’s skull _clacks_ against the wooden bench. Winry squeaks in alarm.

A moment later, Brother bolts upright, eyes wide. “Who—Where— W-What happened? Are we there yet?” His eyes narrow as he takes in the white plastic boxes. “...What the hell?”

“You fell asleep.” Winry hefts her duffle bag over her shoulder. Al wonders if she even noticed what he just did. “We arrived about two minutes ago and... you’ve got drool on your face.”

Scowling, Brother wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then stifles a yawn into his palm. “Sorry. I don’t think I slept well last night...”

That’s another thing that’s been happening. If Brother doesn’t sleep like a rock, then he’s tossing and turning and whimpering in his sleep. The word “nightmares” is never used, because Al is nothing if not discreet and he minds his brother’s right to privacy. Besides, how can you even talk about something like this? Al can’t sympathize because he can’t sleep—and that’s really no one’s fault but his own.

As Brother bends down to pick up his suitcase, he pauses and clutches the side of his head with a grunt. Turning back to them, he scowls, head tilted to one side as he massages his temple. “Why does my head hurt?”

Oh boy. Uh. How to explain this without Brother getting too mad at him.

He glances at Winry, but she just blinks at him. Apparently he was right in assuming she hadn’t caught him earlier.

Okay. He’s on his own. Great.

Reluctantly, he turns back to Brother’s arched brow and suspicious expression, highly aware of the fact that he would be swallowing guiltily if he could. “W-Well—”

“Who the hell’re these bozos?”

The harsh, hostile voice makes them all turn. A young boy—Al assumes him to be a boy at first—stands there with his hands on his hips and a deep scowl on his face, brows drawn as though to showcase every fibre of exasperation. Baggy clothes drape his form, a loose set of trousers and a patched green vest over an oversized collared white shirt. Even the loafers he wears look oversized, like they were chosen for someone else. The ensemble reminds Al vaguely of the newspaper boys he once saw on the street corners of East City, that one time Dad took them. Dark hair is hidden beneath a brown, broad-brimmed cap, and blue eyes simmer with a sort of instinctive aggression, as though every aspect of their beings offended him somehow. It’s a familiar expression.

“Who’re you callin’ bozos?” Brother snaps, gripping the side of the cart. He’s bristled, every muscle tense and teeth bared. Al finds himself thinking that Brother and this boy might get along—which is probably not a good thing.

“You. Duh,” sniffs the boy. Except, now that Al hears the voice again, he realizes there’s a pitch and timbre that is more feminine. His— _her_ —features, too, are more girlish, with a soft jawline and long lashes and a delicate touch to the curve of her ears. “Are you deaf in addition to being tacky?”

At this, Brother vaults over the side of the cart, landing deftly on his feet. He stumbles a little, probably on account of the head injury or any lingering drowsiness, but he recovers quickly enough to aim a glare at the tomboy. Al tries not to find any humor in noting that she’s a tad taller. “ _Tacky_?”

“Obviously.” The girl crosses her arms and tilts her chin up defiantly. Behind her, the driver is conversing with the person in the white suit, who has removed his hat to reveal a perfectly ordinary-looking gentlemen. A dark-haired woman has also appeared at some point, dressed in pearls and with her lips painted bright red. “I mean, _look_ at you. There’s _gotta_ be something wrong with your eyes.”

“ _Why you_ —”

“Klaus.” At the sound of a woman’s voice, they all turn. There’s a disapproving curve to the woman’s red lips. “Stop being rude.”

The girl, presumably Klaus, only snorts and crosses her arms, looking away. Her entire body seems fraught with restless hostility.

“I’m so sorry,” says the man, addressing the driver. “It’s been... stressful. This time of the year and all.”

“It’s alright Mr. Danforth,” replies the driver, sounding particularly unfazed by anything. At this point, Al would be surprised if he was fazed by a train crash. He gestures over to them vaguely. “These three are here to look for an acquaintance or something. Maybe you can help ‘em.”

“Oh really?” asks the woman, who Al assumes to be Mrs. Danforth. “Who?”

A look is exchanged between Brother and Winry. “James Majhal,” says Brother.

Klaus’s nose wrinkles. “The weird old guy who lives on the edge of town? Why the hell’re you lookin’ for him?”

Brother’s jaw works and Al can see the retort brimming on his tongue—he steps in before it can fly loose. “He’s a friend of our father’s. He still lives here, right?”

“He lives closer to the woods,” offers Mr. Danforth pleasantly. He turns to his daughter. At least, Al thinks she’s his daughter. “Not too far from here, actually. Klaus, why don’t you escort them?”

She balks a little at that. “What? Why! I can help load up the mead—”

“It’ll only take ten minutes at most. We can manage in the meantime.”

For a moment, Klaus looks inclined to argue the point further, but she must see something behind the easy smile of her father, because the defiance leaves her expression the next minute. Heaving a sigh, she crosses her arms over her chest. “Okay, fine.” Glancing over her shoulder, she says to them, “Okay, weirdos. Follow me, no talking, no questions. The sooner you’re outta my hair, the better.”

Fresh indignation flashes across Brother’s face, but Winry is quick to clamp a hand down on his shoulder. “Thank you,” she says as Klaus struts off. They follow her.

“Always nice to see you Klaus,” calls the driver blandly. In response, Klaus only waves her hand halfheartedly. Al catches the driver turning back to the Danforth couple and remarking, conversationally, “Say, is Liesel around right now? Or is she off at the florist’s again?”

He does not miss the way Klaus’s shoulders tense.

* * *

It really is a nice little town. The woods give off a rich loamy smell, and the color of the leaves are quite vivid, oranges and yellows mellowing into crisp, brittle brown. There’s a pleasant crunch underfoot from fallen leaves and earth made brittle by the onset of autumn. Normally, a hike like this would have been refreshing. Winry finds herself unable to fully any of appreciate it.

Mr. Martin’s warning still stalks the back of her mind, as do those marks she saw in the bark of the trees earlier—animals don’t make marks like that. They don’t spell ominous warnings for wary travelers. Every shift of the branches, every flutter of the shadows from the woods, every whisper of the leaves makes her tense. She keeps expecting a ghoul with talon-tipped fingers to leap out and snatch her up, foaming at the mouth, teeth like daggers. Even when she squeezes her eyes shut, the specter is slow to dissipate from her mind.

Ed walks in stride with her, Al following up at the rear. He’s trying to be subtle about the looks he’s sending her—disbelief laced with concern, which has her both indignant and touched at once, it’s a strange feeling—but he keeps glancing at her far too frequently. Subtly, at this point, has been abandoned. She thinks Al might also have picked up on her distress, but she doesn’t dare look over her shoulder to check. All she can do is look ahead and try not let her gaze flit around in search of boogeymen.

Up ahead, Klaus strides forward, sure-footed and silent. There’s a casualness to her step that gives Winry the impression she could walk this path with her eyes closed. Not once as she turned her head to address them since, hands stuffed in her pockets and shoulders pointedly hunched.

Which why it’s surprising when she suddenly speaks. “Hey, princess.”

Winry nearly jumps out of her skin at that, and swallows. Normally she doesn’t stand for such gruffness, but this whole thing has her more rattled than she’d like. “Who? Me?”

“No. The dumb kid with the plait.” Her voice drips with sarcasm.

Anger flashes in Ed’s eyes, but she is quick to temper it with a hand to his shoulder. Honestly, she’s surprised how well that works. Ha. Maybe she should make a living off of it—official tamer of temperamental people.

Flinty teal eyes focus on her. Winry feels like she’s been pinned against a wall, somehow. “You should hide your hair—and ditch that skirt. If you look too pretty, then the Witch’ll come after you.”

As shameful as it is to admit, her shiver of fear that goes down her spine is accompanied by intrigue. “Witch? What witch?”

“The one that’s snatching up pretty little girls like you,” responds Klaus, a touchy bratty. Still, Winry’s stomach flips in her abdomen, because the image of scratch-marks on tree trunks flashes through her mind. “Don’t tell me Jacobsen didn’t tell you!”

“We heard about it,” Al responds carefully. “But we were under the impression that it was a ghoul. Not a witch.”

“I honestly don’t see the difference,” Ed declares stridently. His suitcase swings at his side like a pendulum.

Wickedness glints Klaus’s eyes as she glances back over at them, accentuated by a feline curl in her smirk. “I’d be careful if I were you, pretty boy. With hair like that, the Witch might think you’re a girl and snatch you up, too.”

Growling rumbles in Ed’s throat, but again, Winry stays him before punches can start flying. “Why do you call it a ‘witch’?”

“‘Cause that’s what she is,” Klaus scoffs, digging her hands deeper into her pockets. She tilts her chin up high, as though the sky itself were challenging her. “She used to be this florist who lived here, like, twenty years ago. But then she died on a mountain cliff of something—at least, that’s what everybody thinks, even though they _never_ found the body.”

It’s probably totally a coincidence, but a chilly breeze picks up right then. A shiver runs through Winry and she rubs her arms to rid herself of sudden goosebumps.

But Ed only looks spectacularly unconvinced. “Right. Because that _totally_ makes someone a witch.”

All of a sudden, Klaus halts, and they all halt with her. She turns sharply on her heel, so fast that a lock of dark hair comes loose from beneath her cap. Her bangs, peeking out from the hat, cast a deep shadow over her eyes. “Even in life, Karin was weird. She was famous for growing and selling blue roses. _Blue_ roses.”

A beat of silence passes. The branches rustle overhead, rattling distantly like bones. Winry waits for Klaus to elaborate but she makes no move to.

“What’s wrong with blue roses?” Al asks finally. There’s the barest hint of incredulity in his tone, but he’s trying his best to be respectful. “I saw some in the flower shop we passed earlier.”

Annoyance flashes across Klaus’s face, and she brings her hands out of her pockets to plant them on her hips. “Those are Lebi’s roses, and they’re different. Those’re lavender—kind of a bluish purple. The roses _I’m_ talking about were _bright_ blue, like the summer sky on a clear day.”

“Ooh, _scary_.” Ed makes a mocking spooky gesture with his free hand that counterpoints his deadpanned expression.

The annoyance simmering in Klaus’s eyes is starting to broach anger. She juts a finger out so sharply that Ed has to jolt back to avoid being stabbed square in the nose. “ _Listen_ , pretty boy. Anyone who knows _anything_ about flowers knows that roses don’t _come_ in that color. It’s not _natural_.”

“So... what?” Al tilts his head upward just a tad, almost thoughtfully. A stray leaf, bright burning red, lands on his shoulder. “She was using witchcraft to change the roses’ color?”

“That’s bullshit,” Ed declares, though he goes slightly cross-eyed gazing at Klaus’s extended finger and it mitigates his scowl somewhat. “Magic doesn’t _exist_!”

“And even if it did, why would someone just use it to change the color of roses?” When she notices the look of utter disbelief and exasperation Ed sends her way, Winry fights a rush of indignation and huffs, hiking the strap of her bag higher. “I’m just _speculating_ here. _Geez_.”

“Look, all I know is that, since she died twenty years ago, Karin the Witch hasn’t left us alone.” Klaus crosses her arms again and looks away, but Winry can see something tight and pained about the way she holds herself. “She snatches girls out of their houses at night. No one ever sees them alive again.”

Another chilly breeze gusts past, stronger than the last one. It rustles Winry’s ponytail and makes the branches ripple. She wonders maybe there’s some sort of power in discussing this witch, if maybe Karin is watching them right now.

Finally, Al lowers his head again. The leaf flutters loose, like a crimson feather. “I... heard the driver mention someone named ‘Liesel’. Was she a victim too?”

The remark strikes true, and Klaus’s shoulders hunch. Winry can only see her other girl’s profile, but it’s enough to make out the raw fractured pain that enters her expression. “Yeah... my older sister.”

It feels like something died in the air, then, because it turns a dark, heavy grey in mourning. The brothers exchange a minute, surreptitious look with each other before quickly averting their eyes, and Winry doesn’t need to be a psychic to know they’re thinking about _that night_. Or the possibility of what might happen if one lost the other.

Winry considers that too, briefly—the cold, talon-fingered terror that clutched her chest when Al turned up her doorstep, toting Ed’s limp and bloody form in his unfamiliar arms. The ache of loneliness and loss whenever they went away on a trip, far from Risembool and far from her. She tries to think about some unholy medley between the two, between loneliness and grieving. It wouldn’t be the same as losing Uncle Van or her parents, because she’d always had the brothers and they always had her, and together they had endured their pain.

But if she lost them too...

Klaus’s head turns so that all Winry can see is the back of her head. That single dark lack drips down her neck like a rivulet of ink. “It was a couple days ago when we finally found her body. Her eyes were open, a-and she looked like she died s-screaming. She l-looked like she had the l-l- _life_ sucked out of her.”

There’s another stretch of silence, punctuated by Klaus’s heavy breathing. Winry isn’t sure if she’s crying or not—she wouldn’t be surprised if she was. Even the strongest of people need to weep for their loved ones. Otherwise all those tears get trapped, weight upon your soul and make it bow under the sheer weight of grief.

Finally, Klaus shifts again. She reaches up and tucks the lock of hair back up into her cap. There’s no sound of sniffling, no trace of tears, but there is a faint tremor in her fingers as she moves. “The funeral’s tomorrow. The Requiem Festival’s even being pushed up early because of it.”

“Requiem Festival?” Winry repeats. She can’t seem to raise her voice above anything but a whisper.

“It’s this thing where we send the dead on their way to the afterlife. With fireworks.” Klaus readjusts her cap, giving it a slight, precursory tug before she shoves her hands back into her pockets. Bitterness seeps into her tone as she goes on, something sharp and caustic that could burn you from the inside out if you allowed it to, if it remained trapped inside you indefinitely. “Not that it’s ever worked with the Witch. _She’s_ here to stay.”

Winry’s chest clutches at that. Tentatively, she steps forward, one hand outstretched. Her fingers brush the thick nylon fabric of Klaus’s vest. “...I’m sorry.”

Without warning, Klaus suddenly whirls around, a resounding _smack_ ringing through the air as her hand knocks Winry’s away. Winry flinches back, her wrist stinging. There’s a cold, fractured sort of fury in Klaus’s eyes, like polished jewels crushed beneath someone’s boot. “What’re _you_ apologizing for?”

The ferocity of her rejection takes Winry aback. “I-I was just—”

“I don’t need your fucking _pity_ ,” Klaus hisses. The venom there is almost strong enough to sting. She takes a step forward, dropping her arms to curl into white-knuckled fists at her side. “The only reason I’m even _telling_ you this is so you don’t do something stupid like walk around with long hair. If you really care about your life, or any of the other lives lost here, you’ll be _smart_. You _got_ that, princess?”

Immediately Ed is stepping forward, shoulders square and teeth bared, but this time it’s Al who holds him back, grabbing the hood of his coat and rooting him in place. Still, the burning in his eyes say he has a few choice words that he’d like to spit in Klaus’s face, given the chance. Klaus matches it with her own dark smolder, her own defiance and ferocity. Winry thinks of sparks flying when carving into the metal, when a diamond-tipped saw shapes a raw piece of steel, when something tempered and perfected meets something unrefined and unpolished.

The intensity between them seems to snap and crack. Winry feels crushed beneath it, like one of the crisp autumn leaves beneath her shoes. She breathes in, breathes out. The air has gotten cooler, sharper.

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

Startled, Klaus turns to Winry, blinking. Ed and Al glance at her too, bewildered. Klaus recovers quickly, though, her scowl returning with a vengeance. “What _for_?”

Winry adjusts the strap of her bag—it digs into her bare shoulder. “Warning me. I appreciate it.”

Uncertainty flashes across Klaus’s face and she draws back. “Yeah. Well—whatever.” With a moody huff, she whirls around on her heel. “The sooner we get to old man Majhal’s, the better.”

* * *

In all honesty, Ed expected his father to have higher standards, but apparent he was the sort of man who made friends with someone that lives in a constant state of disrepair. So, that’s a thing now.

Majhal’s house—it can even be _called_ that—is broken-down and decrepit, with the roof missing more shingles than it has and the porch looking ready to collapse the minute someone walks on it. The lawn, if it really is a lawn, is just a wide expanse of yellowing grasses and a smattering of sodden brown leaves. Set so close to the woods that the trees literally make up the backyard, the house seems eternally trapped in the dappled shade of bare branches and leaf-cover. Nestled deeper into the forest is an old-looking shed of some kind, though it’s significantly less derelict than the house itself. In fact, calling it a “shed” may not be accurate, because it has shuttered windows and it’s too large to be classified as such, but it’s not really a barn or a warehouse either, so Ed is left uncertain as to what to call it.

Still, the house itself is an eyesore. Even if there is smoke curling out from the crumbling brick chimney, Ed has trouble believing someone—anyone—could live here.

Apparently he’s not the only one who has reservations, because Al glances uncertainly at Klaus. “Are you _sure_ this is where Majhal lives?”

“Pretty damn sure,” Klaus snaps. Honestly, Ed isn’t really sure how to feel about her. She’s prickly and caustic and doesn’t seem to have any regards for anyone beyond herself—but that familiar light of grief makes his heart squeeze and whatever annoyance he finds with her ends up dissipating after a while (until it’s stoked again, of course, but that’s another story). She jerks her chin out in a show of arrogance, and it’s here that Ed’s irritation sparks anew. “He’s lived there longer than I’ve been alive, so there.”

There’s a creak as Al tilts his helmet contemplatively. Ed wonders if maybe he should consider investing in oil to lubricate the joints, but he quickly kills that thought because there’s no need—Al is going to be back to normal soon.

As they approach, Ed notices a weathervane atop the house. Weathervanes aren’t unusual, especially in small towns, though they’re usually stylized after roosters or hawks or something else avian. Majhal’s, he finds, is stylized like a rose.

Huh.

Klaus approaches the porch without any hesitation and doesn’t flinch at the creaking. At Ed’s side, Winry tenses—she’s been jumpy since they first arrived in Bumble Hollow—and he has to stifle an eyeroll. Knuckles rap hard against the door, as though Klaus has little concern as to whether or not the door will cave.

Behind the door, Ed catches the sound of shuffling and movement. Then, a curt, answering, “If that’s you again, Lebi, just leave it at the door. I’ll just collect it later.”

“It’s Klaus.” When there’s no answer, Klaus scowls. “Klaus _Danforth_.”

A low whine fills the still air as the door cracks open a little. In the crack, a sliver of a face hovers—long, unruly brown hair and a single eye narrowed in suspicion, but Ed can’t make out much else. “You’re... Liesel’s sister, aren’t you?”

At the mention of her sister, Klaus bristles, and Ed tactfully ignores the look Al sends him. Luckily, she smooths over the next minute, hardening a shell to keep her temper back. “Yeah. Look, I got a couple visitors for you here—”

“Visitors?” repeats Majhal. His voice sounds kind of hoarse, as though all the vigor has been leeched from it over the years, leaving behind a timbre reminiscent to the sound of wood creaking. “What visitors?”

Taking that as his cue, Ed passes his suitcase over to Al, then steps carefully onto the porch. He feels the wood of the front step literally sag beneath the weight of his metal leg and pauses for a moment, half-convinced the whole thing will collapsed beneath him. When it doesn’t, he swallows and continues forward. As he approaches, the filmy grey eye focuses on him—it’s a dusty sort of grey, like the vestiges of time itself, shriveled and derelict and cloudy.

“Uh.” Ed suddenly finds his mouth dry. There’s something weirdly intimidating about that one eye, how it pierces through him with calculated judgement. “You’re James Majhal, right? I came here from Risembool—”

“I don’t take apprentices,” Majhal interrupts, then slams the door closed.

Ed has to blink of a moment before the spark of indignance settles in. When it does, it flares like the flame on a Bunsen burner, bright and hot and bluish-white. “I didn’t come here looking for a teacher!”

“Good,” comes the voice on the other side. “Go home, boy.”

The fucking nerve!

Next to him, Klaus looks unmistakably smug, arms crossed and mouth curled into a wicked smirk. “Oops! Did I forget to mention he’s not very receptive to strangers? Oh gosh, I feel _so_ silly.”

Okay. Girl or not, he’s gonna fucking clock her.

Seeing this, Winry suddenly steps between them, her hands held outward in a placating gesture. After swinging her gaze back and forth between them to gauge the tension—which is still there, but the impulse to punch has mellowed out—before she settles back on him. “Ed, maybe we should come back later.”

In his mind’s eye, he sees flames and smoke and his childhood home crumbling into ash. A fresh wave of indignation surges through him. “Like hell! We didn’t come all this way just to turn back now!” His metal knuckles make a horribly caustic sound as they crash against the door. He’s honestly amazed that the wood holds. “Open the hell up, dammit!”

Again, the door opens just a crack, and Majhal’s single grey eye pierces through them. “How many times do I have to tell you to go home?”

“ _Listen_ pal,” Ed snarls, “I’m here ‘cause you knew my _dad_ and I wanted to _talk_ to you—”

Majhal slams the door closed again—or at least attempts to. Ed wedges his shoulder in the gap before it can close completely. There’s a groan as the door crushes against his shoulder, but it’s the metal shoulder and the pressure of it doesn’t equate to pain so much as it does squeeze fruitlessly at the steel plates. A growl of frustration sounds, though Ed isn’t sure if it comes from him or Majhal.

“You knew him,” Ed insists. “His name’s Van Hohenhei—”

He doesn’t get to finish before the door swings back open and he stumbles forward with a yelp. His skull _clacks_ against hardwood floor, sending fresh, throbbing pain through his head. Which is really just _fantastic_ , now _both_ his temples are bruised. Over the blaring ache, he catches Winry and Al’s pitchy vocalization of concern, though the words themselves are mostly lost. Groaning, he sits back up and massages the tender spot.

“Are you really Hohenheim’s son?”

At the sound of the voice overhead, Ed looks up. Majhal, as it turns out, is an older man, somewhere in his late forties or early fifties, with a long, gaunt face and a hawkish, prominent nose. There’s a pallor about him—not the ghastly kind, just the kind you get from staying inside for long periods of time—that only seems to make the deep frown lines on his face all the more pronounced. Hair the same grey-brown color of shriveled leaves falls limp and slightly tangled to his shoulders, as though he’s simply given up trying to care for it. His clothing looks like he just threw it on because it was clean, a vest and collared shirt and slacks picked out in a halfhearted attempt to dress himself. Those eyes, still filmy and grey, peer down at him, but they’ve lost their judgmental overtone. Instead, he looks at Ed with an intense sort of fascination.

“Uh, yeah.” Ed dusts his pants off as he rises to his feet. A rush of dizziness hits him, but he manages not to stumble. “I’m Ed.”

A few more awkward seconds pass as Majhal continues to stare at him. It gets to the point where Ed has to fight the urge to fidget, because he gets the sensation he’s being graded, somehow, on his appearance. Finally, Majhal’s face relaxes, chapped mouth curving into a reserved sort of smile.

“Yes, you must be,” he says softly. “You look just like him.”

Ed isn’t sure how to respond to that.

Winry has head poked in through the doorframe, but she flinches in alarm when Majhal’s gaze turns to her. “I don’t usually take visitors so late in the day, but... I think I can make an exception, for an old friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fans of the '03 series my recognize this as a filler episode but I PROMISE THIS IS PLOT RELEVANT. I know exactly where this will go and fit into the grand scheme of things, so just bear with me.
> 
> What Klaus says about blue roses is true! Naturally, the bluest shade a rose can achieve is a sort of lavender color, even with specific breeding. Anything brighter or purer is usually the result of artificial coloring or genetic engineering. In literature, a blue rose can symbolize immortality or eternal love, but because of their natural impossibility, they also symbolize the unattainable.
> 
> Questions and comments are always appreciated, and clarification is available to those that need it.
> 
> Sincerely yours,  
> The Immortal Moon


	12. Alchemy and Witchcraft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A failed transmutation you say...” He brings a hand up to stroke his chin. “Well... you _could_ try the Philosopher’s Stone, I suppose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, bitches! *pops champagne cork*

_“There is no great genius without some touch of madness.”_  
—Aristotle

 

_~1911_

The interior of Majhal’s house is a vast improvement from the exterior, Ed finds. It’s still pretty shabby, but the cracks in the plaster are hairline and there’s no smell of mildew hanging in the air, so that’s a plus. There’s a draft somewhere that whistles though the empty wooden halls, but Ed chooses to ignore it as he carefully folds his hands over the surface of the dining room table. Winry keeps fidgeting with the strap of her workbag, as though the very idea of sitting still for too long and doing nothing is deeply abominable. Sandwiched between them both, Al occupies his time with taking in the startling lack of paraphernalia—no potted plants or picture frames or decorative plates or anything else that marks the place as someone’s home.

Ed, however, doesn’t bother. He can’t look at the house or its interior, can’t drink in anything. Every time he tries, his gaze automatically averts somewhere else. Instead, he simply keeps his gaze locked on the kitchen across from him, where Majhal is rooting through his pantry in search of something edible.

After several moments of rustling around and no one saying anything, Majhal emerges with a sigh and a particularly sour look on his face before closing the pantry back up. A tin can with a bright yellow label plastered upon it is clutched in his hand. “My apologies. I don’t usually go to the grocer’s until Tuesday. I’m afraid the only thing I have in the house is some canned tomato soup.”

“Oh it’s fine,” Winry chimes, her voice just an octave too high. Seeming to realize this, she clears her throat and straightens. “I mean—you don’t have to go through all the trouble.”

“Nonsense. You’re guests.” Majhal takes the can of soup and pulls out a pot with a rusted handle, which he then places on the stove. The kitchen looks like it needs a complete renovation, with yellowing cabinets and grimy counters and a stove that needs to be properly wiped down. “And besides, it’s the least I can do... considering.”

_“Considering you’re Van Hohenheim’s sons and honorary niece”, you mean._

In the back of his mind, Ed always harbored the knowledge that his father, in his youth, was a prominent alchemist who traveled all throughout Amestris, amassing a list of acquaintances as he went. He always thought he knew what that meant, always thought he could imagine what Dad has been like, young and reckless and charming enough to get even the more secretive of alchemists to open up. But it’s different to understand something, logically, and then to be faced with the shocking reality of it. It’s like that time Teacher left him and Al on Yock Island for a month—they had known, intellectually, what alchemy’s principles were, but experiencing them in concord with the world was far more visceral.

As Ed observes the warm glow of admiration in Majhal’s eyes at the mere mention of Dad—it’s strange, and weird, and suddenly all too tactile. And Ed just isn’t sure how to feel about that. Dad has always been the dorky, nerdy, absentminded father of theirs who only seemed abstractly capable of inspiring such a thing in anyone. The more he thinks about it, the more he gets this twisty feeling in his gut, like his intestines somehow knotted themselves up. So he tries not to think about it too much.

Or the fact that Majhal looks at _him_ with a shade of that admiration. That’s _definitely_ something Ed doesn’t want to think about too much.

“So, um.” He doesn’t know if Winry senses his discomfort, or maybe if she has her own discomfort that she’s trying to internalize. They are, after all, in a stranger’s house, so it wouldn’t be remiss. “How did you and Uncle Van know each other?”

The stove is clicked on. Majhal fishes through the drawers for a can opener. “I met him about... God, has it really been twenty years now?” The man pauses and seems to marvel at that for a moment. Ed marvels at it too. He’d always known his father was, well, _old_ —but twenty years is so long, longer than he’s been alive, longer than Dad was a father to anyone. It’s such a surreal revelation, that Dad... had a life beyond them, once. “He actually sought me out at the time... I supposed I’d garnered a reputation by then, ha ha. He thought my brand of research might be pertinent to his.”

Al looks up at that, a little intrigued. And Ed can’t blame them. The elusive subject of Dad’s research has always been a curiosity to them, something they’ve debated among themselves late at night, sometimes, when neither of them could sleep. “Really?”

“Well, _he_ seemed to think there was a correlation.” The canned soup is poured into the pot. Majhal cracks the edge of the can against the lip, and Ed watches idly as sluggish red liquid drips. Once the can is empties, Majhal sets it aside. “Personally, I didn’t think the subject material was all that relevant.”

“Why not?” Al asks. There’s a glimmer of scientific curiosity in his brother’s eyes. Ed’s sure Al would talk about this all night, if he allowed it.

“Oh, I’m sure you know all about that.” Majhal waves his hand dismissively, and plucks a ladle from the drawer with which to stir the soup. Slowly, the air begins to fill with the smell of tomatoes. Somberness suffuses across his face suddenly. “You say it’s been... how long since he died?”

“Er... three years now.” Ed doesn’t really want to talk about this right now.

“Such a shame,” Majhal murmurs. He abandons the pot to search the cabinets, then emerges with a pair of porcelain bowls. “He was a brilliant man.”

Ed swallows around the lump in his throat. “Yeah.” _And a great father._ “He was.”

There’s another awkward beat of silence, this one longer and thicker and heavy with the scent of tomato soup. Ed looks down at the table, at the grimy wood that needs to be cleaned off. Was it like this when Dad was here, or was it vastly different? Twenty years—Dad would have been eighteen at the time, then, only six years older than Ed is now. Still young and brimming with potential and wonder at the world, looking at alchemy as a miraculous thing without bounds. The world was still unknown to him then, Ed supposes, and every inch of it was ripe for the taking.

It hits him, then, that they’re _literally_ retracing his father’s steps.

“...I still can’t get over the fact that Hohenheim of Light got married!” Majhal’s tone is awkward and uncertain, a vain attempt to lighten the atmosphere. “Your mother must be some woman.”

It’s an innocent enough statement, and Majhal doesn’t know that Trisha Elric turned her back to them without ever looking back, but a maelstrom goes off in Ed regardless. A thousand bitter sentiment writhe in his throat, like shards of shrapnel that he forced down his gullet and are coming back up, ready to shatter on impact, spill out in a noxious flurry _. Dad wasn’t married—that bitch fucking left us—didn’t show up for the funeral—what does it matter, we’re not like her—we’re better off without her—_

“‘Hohenheim of Light’?” Winry repeats, bewildered, and Ed’s hateful train of thought comes to an abrupt halt.

Not looking up from his task, Majhal turns off the stove, then busies himself ladling a watery-looking scarlet broth into the bowls. “That’s what he liked to call himself. He seemed quite fond of the moniker, actually.” Spoons are fished out of the drawer and plunked into the bowls. A lid is placed upon the pot. “I don’t know where it came from, but he boasted it as though it were a badge of honor.”

As Majhal approaches with the bowls, Al leans subtly over to Ed and murmurs, “[Did you know about this?]”

He (is ashamed to say he) shakes his head.

There’s a soft clink as the bowls are set down, and the broth is lividly red. Ed blinks at it dumbly as he picks up the spoon, not entirely sure what to do with it. Why wouldn’t Dad tell them about his old moniker? Was he embarrassed by it or something? Sure, it sounded a little odd, but also kind of impressive—like a title afforded to him by some great and momentous achievement. So then why wouldn’t he boast about it, as he had all his other youthful accomplishments?

“I’d offer you some too, Alphonse, but I think you’d have trouble eating it,” Majhal says as settles down in the seat across from them.

Guilt twists in Ed’s lungs but he tries to smother it by tasting a spoonful of soup. It’s watery, lukewarm, but not unappetizing. And if he’s being a little honest with himself, at the taste of food, his appetite is quick to remind him that he hasn’t really eaten since the Kaumafy train station, where they purchased some cinnamon sticky buns to snack on.

“Uh...” Peripherally, Ed is acutely aware of Al’s discomfort and watches in case he needs to intervene. “I guess it _is_ kind of difficult to eat in a suit of armor...”

Winry leans back in her chair to send Ed an urgent look around Al’s back. Deliberately slow, Ed swallows a mouthful of soup and sends Majhal a look that he hopes conveys the desire to change the topic.

“Well, yes, that’s true, I suppose.” Oblivious, Majhal steeples his hands on the table. Ed doesn’t care for the way he’s eyeing Al so... analytically. “But I was more referring to the soul attachment.”

Ed chokes on soup and splutters, coughing so hard he nearly misses Winry dropping her spoon and Al’s flummoxed exclamation of, “You can _tell_?”

Majhal blinks calmly, as though he can’t understand the reasoning behind their reactions. “Of course. That’s my expertise—the human soul and its relationship with alchemy.”

All Ed can do is set his spoon down and blink dumbly. The inscription from Dad’s pocketbook suddenly flashes through his memory— _Research focuses primarily on soul theory and metaphysical aspects._ And yes, he’d suspected as much when he read that, but it only clicks now that it might have implied Majhal dabbled in theories of soul- _binding_.

Then, belatedly— _Dad **knew** about soul-binding?_

“I’m amazed that someone actually _succeeded_ in binding a soul,” says Majhal with no shortage of awe. The light in his eyes is slightly unsettling. “Exactly _how_ long have you been like this, Alphonse?”

“W-Well...” There’s a distinct note of discomfort in Al’s tone, now. Ed’s metal hand curls into a fist in anticipation. “A-About a year now?”

“A _year_?” Majhal repeats, bolting to his feet. His eyes grow large as milk saucers. “As in _twelve consecutive months_?”

Al looks like he wants to shrink into a corner. “Uh, yeah?”

“ _Amazing_! To think there’s a soul binding that can _survive_ for so long.” Abruptly, Majhal reaches over the table and plucks Al’s helmet off his body. Al yelps, and Winry’s jaw drops, as the senior alchemist then proceeds to peer through the eyeholes with his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Do you know who performed the transmutation? I’d like to know how they managed to create something so _stable_.”

The words “let go of my brother’s head!” itch on Ed’s tongue, but an uncomfortable prickling settles in the back of his throat, so instead it comes out as, “What do you mean?”

Answering with a thoughtful hum, Majhal proceeds to turn the helmet over and squint dubiously at the empty recesses, as though it will yield the secret to unlocking the universe. He seems too quick to disregard the fact that Al is, y’know, a _person_. “Well, in my findings, almost all attempts at anchoring a soul result in a rejection—say, Alphonse, where exactly _is_ your anchor? Does it utilize Orwell’s sigils or Cosmov’s? Maybe Frauenfeld? I _always_ thought there was some potential usage to his theories, even if they are largely scrapped by modern alchemy—”

**(—chances of rejection are thirty-two-point-seventy-three percent—)**

At the Gate’s sudden vocalization, Ed nearly jumps out of his skin. But he manages to recover quickly enough, leaning forward and nearly banging his steel elbow on the table in the process. “What do you mean by ‘rejection’?”

His worry seems to startle Majhal, who looks up briefly from his task and blinks casually. “Oh. Well. It’s when the soul rejects the foreign body. It’s often a violent process and, without a vessel, the soul usually dies.”

Everything just _stops_ , then. Like the space-time continuum decided to break, just for him, decided to fracture and crack and crumble into nonexistence.

The ground has dropped out from under him. There’s no other way to describe this absolute sensation of unbearably light numbness that invades his flesh, and leaves his metal limbs as a counterpoint of gravity intent on dragging him down, down, down. He’s hot and cold all at once and all the strength in his body swirls down some metaphorical drain—he can _see_ it happening, the slow, hypnotic rhythm of it enough to transfix him, almost.

**swirling**

Tracing bloody matrixes onto his elbows, on his forehead, bloody palms, so much blood, burning scarlet.

**swirling**

Take my arm, take my other leg, take my heart. He’s the only family I have left. Wet smack of palm and against palm give him back to me bring him back I know how—

**swirling**

flesh for steel, not right but alive is alive, it isn’t right yet it could have been so much worse, but i can fix it, come back to me little brother i don’t want to be _alone_

**down the drain**

but what if it hadn’t worked what if i chose a body that didn’t conform to the soul _what could have happened_

**gone**

“...die?”

Unnervingly casual about the whole thing, Majhal only nods distractedly as he continues to peer at the helmet’s lifeless recesses. “A soul can’t survive without a physical body. That’s why dying _is_ , after all. The body simply losing the ability to support the soul.”

Breathing shakily, Ed slumps back. The back of the chair is the only thing that holds him upright, that keeps him from collapsing beneath the weight of his own horror.

**(—accounting for lag in human thought processing and decision-making, smear and cleanliness of the anchor, and liminality of the soul, margin of error calculates at a rounded twenty-three-point-nine percent—)**

_I could’ve killed him._

“Um, Mr. Majhal?” There’s horror in Al’s voice and Ed can’t look, can’t see the headless body—his stomach lurches and he has to swallow hard to keep those sticky buns from the station down. “C-Can I have my head back?”

“Hm?” Finally looking up and noticing the heavy atmosphere, Majhal’s expression sobers. “Oh. Of course. My apologies.” He passes the helmet back to Al, who snatches it up with all the desperation of a starving man offered food. Numbly, Ed can’t help but notice Majhal watching his brother as Al settles the ornament back into place. The analytical glimmer has returned, although it is subdued by something more sympathetic. “I suppose walking around headless would unnerve people, hm?”

Al pauses, briefly, then releases his helmet. He looks sort of like he wants to run. “Yeah...”

Majhal eases himself back into his seat. His stringy hair drips over his eyes. “Say, Alphonse—have you tried to perform any alchemy since you assumed this form?”

That brings Ed back, heart leaping to his throat. He thinks about Truth’s scintillating smile and the horrible rush of information that the Gate discharged into his skull. **(—round and round the world keeps turning, All is One and One is All—)**

“Uh... No?” Al gives the older alchemist a cautious look. “Why?”

“Well, I have this theory—that the soul is what allows us to perform alchemy,” Majhal explains blithely, steepling his fingers again. His eagerness is disconcertingly childlike. “It’s like an energy converter of some kind that allows us humans to draw from the energy of the environment and pour it into our transmutations. It’s only a theory, of course, and there’s really never been a way to test it.” He tilts his head to one side. There’s an oily sheen to his unwashed hair, Ed notices absently. “Until now.”

Discomfort all but palpable now, Al carefully looks away. Ed wants to touch his gauntlet in comfort, but the desire doesn’t translate into action. “I’ll... think about it.”

“We can talk about that later,” Ed intervenes, his tone coming out sharper than he would have liked but making no move to correct it. Enough is enough, after all. “See, the reason we actually came here is—”

“But you understand the scientific significance this could have!” Ignoring Ed entirely, Majhal focuses on Al with a fervent gleam to his vulture-like eyes. “It would prove that we, as humans, do not need these physical, decaying bodies of ours in order to perform alchemy. That we—”

“Speaking of bodies!” Winry’s voice is pitchy but she does her best to hide it. Her smile is too wide, forced to stretch across her face like an elastic band pulled to the point of snapping. “We’re trying to find a way to restore Al’s. You wouldn’t happen to know _how_ , would you?”

Winry, Ed decides, is absolute fantastic. He’s so fucking glad she invited herself along on their trip. So. Fucking. _Glad_.

Unfortunately, Majhal’s brows pinch at that, and his scientific enthusiasm is replaced by a scientific skepticism. “When you say ‘restore’, what exactly do you mean?”

“Ah, er.” Ed glances at his brother, who is still looking away, as though the wall were infinitely more interesting. He wracks his brain briefly for an explanation before ultimately deciding that the best lies are interwoven with a sprinkle of truth. “Al lost his body to a really nasty rebound. We’re trying to figure out how to get him back to normal.”

Thankfully, Majhal doesn’t question the story and instead rolls his eyes back thoughtfully. “A failed transmutation you say...” He brings a hand up to stroke his chin. “Well... you _could_ try the Philosopher’s Stone, I suppose.”

There it is again. “Philosopher’s Stone”. Ed’s brows furrow.

“What’s the Philosopher’s Stone?” Winry asks, scooting a little closer to the table.

“It’s a very powerful alchemical catalyst,” responds Majhal smoothly, which makes Ed arch a brow. An alchemic catalyst? Really? He was kind of expecting something more... mystical, he supposes.

She blinks uncomprehendingly. “A what?”

“It’s a chemical augmenter of alchemic nature that allows one to exponentially increase the output performance of a transmutation,” Ed explains, slowly crossing his arms. Flesh over steel, otherwise the steel arm weighs too heavily on the other.

Helplessly, Winry’s gaze seeks Al. “...translation?”

A chuckle of amusement echoes hollowly through the armor. “It allows alchemists transmutation abilities they usually don’t have.”

“ _Ohhh_.”

Ed feels it necessary to point out that this is some rather basic alchemy jargon. If she’s forgetting this, then maybe they need to have some lessons to refresh her memory.

Before anyone can say anything else or make any more inquiries, there’s a sharp, firm knock at the door. Ed blinks and turns to the door in surprise. He can’t see it from where he’s sitting, because the wall obstructs his immediate view. But he _can_ glimpse the sky through the drawn curtains, and the descending velvet indigo-black hue outside speaks to the late hour. It’s far too late for a visitor.

With a deep, exasperated sigh, Majhal rises from his seat. “Oh, that must be Lebi. She’s _always_ dropping by to bring me things, for one reason or another.” He takes a minute to scowl with a touch of distaste. “Excuse me for a moment.”

As soon as Majhal vanishes from view, the air seems to lighten, somehow. It’s easier for Ed to breathe, although thinking is another story. How could Dad associate with someone so... _tactless_ , is putting it lightly. There was something deliberately unsettling in the gleam of Majhal’s eyes. He wonders, fleetingly, if government scientists would have the same eagerness in examining Al, if they were ever found out—and then he has to stop wondering because that’s an absolutely terrifying thought.

“So...” Winry flicks her bangs out of her face, feigning a weak smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Catalysts?”

“Right.” Al seems almost grateful for the distraction, his voice still a touch shaky. Ed supposes he would be unnerved too, if someone treated him like a research subject. Next time Majhal starts to cross the line, he’s stepping in. “See, there’s three classes of alchemic catalysts. The first is C-Class, which can increase the range of a transmutation. It doesn’t increase the power of the transmutation and the alchemist still has to physically calculate through use of a transmutation circle, but it can allow an alchemist to transmute within an area of, say, fifty feet when they can usually manage only ten.”

Her brows rise at that, seeming impressed. “That sounds useful.”

The soup has long since grown cold, but Ed’s appetite is needling at him again, so he reluctantly goes back to eating. “If you like spreading power large areas and diluting the overall transmutation. Do you know how much focus and precision it takes to transmute over large areas? C-Class are only useful to a few talented individuals. That’s why they’re considered the weakest.”

**(—corona realgar, Trevisan’s vitriol, imperial marcasite, flowers of antimony, massicot tears, aqua vitae—)**

“Most alchemists prefer A-Class or B-Class,” Al explains. Ed scowls around a particularly chunky spoonful of soup. “B-Class is something like calcified alchemic energy. It doesn’t increase the range or change the calculations, but it’s particularly helpful for alchemists that don’t have a lot of endurance. In a way, it allows alchemists to transmute without using up their own energy.”

**(—Kaiser’s bluestone, verdigris, lapis infernalis, aqua aurelia, regulus antimony—)**

“So, if it’s stored energy...” Winry’s brow scrunches thoughtfully, and her lip puckers. “Like a battery?”

That earns a little chuckle of amusement from Al. “I guess? Just think ‘b’ like in ‘battery’.”

A slow, aching sensation has begun in Ed’s skull. He closes his eyes, swallowing another gulp of watery broth. In his mind’s eye, he can almost envision a shore being battered relentlessly by the high tide—that’s an apt metaphor. “The really impressive ones are the A-Class. _They_ can let you transmute without a circle.”

“ _Really_?”

“They’re _rare_ , though,” says Al, and the light of wonder dims from Winry’s eyes just a bit. “Some are mostly speculative. And can be dangerous. If you miscalculate while using one, the rebound can be nasty.”

**(—lapis solaris, arcanum joviale, the azoth, Arbor Diana—)**

“And then there’s the Philosopher’s Stone.” Majhal’s voice makes Winry nearly jump out of her skin and Ed and Al turn sharply. The senior alchemist ambles back into the living room with a small covered basket in his hands. He sets it down the table, hardly paying it any mind, as he settles back into the chair. “Which is another class entirely—S-Class.”

Despite the tension that reasserts itself at Majhal’s re-entry, the curiosity in Al’s luminous eyes is unmistakable. “S-Class?”

Majhal bobs his head absently, but his gaze flickers back to the covered basket. Ed can’t help but notice a trace of disdain there, as though its presence personally offends him. More and more, Ed wonders how Majhal and Dad were ever friends. “Yes. S-Class are rumored to have the abilities of all three classes—the ability to widen the transmutation range, allow the alchemist to not expend their own energy, and to transmute without a circle.”

“You’re _kidding_.” It’s hard to believe that Al was ever uncomfortable before, the way he sounds so giddy now.

“Would any of you like this?” Majhal asks suddenly, looking at the basket. “Lebi’s baking is nice and all, but I’m growing rather sick of her honey cakes. She makes them a bit too often, if you ask me.”

Cautiously, Ed peels back the checkered blanket. A warm, sweet smell is quick to pour out from the gap and it has Ed’s stomach rumbling anew. He shrugs. “I mean, I guess?”

Humming, Majhal rises from his seat again and makes his way over to the kitchen. “In any case, the Philosopher’s Stone is in a class all its own. Mythical, almost. Some say that it doesn’t even exist.”

“Well, if it really is what you say it is, then they probably only say that because of the sheer impossibility that comes from transmuting something like that into existence,” Ed says, frowning. Intrigue tingles in the back of his mind, and—something else. “Theoretically, I _guess_ it’s possible. If you could marry a sample of each catalyst type, you _might_ be able to create something with the abilities of all three. However, the problem lies in the _stability_ of the resulting product, because otherwise it might result in a complete rupture of the molecular bonds, which in and of itself would be catastrophic, even on a small scale.” He pauses for a minute, considering. His brain feels itchy all of a sudden. A touch too full. “The most stable combination that _I_ can think of would probably involve using the lapis solaris as a base—it’s the weakest of the known A-Class catalysts but, chemically speaking, its molecular structure is the most inert, so if you avoid exposing it to intense heat or any acidic elements, you _should_ be fine... Then for the B-Class catalyst, you could use verdigris or aqua aurelia—they’re basically interchangeable, the only real difference is their molecular composition and molar mass, but they have the same life-limit* and they’re made in the same way. Either way, they’re the only B-Class catalysts that could liquify the lapis solaris without causing it to lose its alchemic properties, while anything else would make it explode or dissolve the molecular bonds. Massicot tears would be the safest C-Class catalyst to use if you were to utilize aqua aurelia, but if you utilize verdigris then you have a wider set of options. But the _really_ tricky part is finding out _how_ to combine them. You can’t do it chemically! Trying to chemically decompose a B-Class catalyst can result in destabilization—Emery Johannes Croesan learned _that_ the hard way—but if you use alchemy, you risk thermolysis of the lapis sol—”

“Brother.” Al is staring at him as though Ed’s suddenly started speaking another language. It’s the same look Winry gives him whenever he and Al start speaking in Xerxean, which is why it bewilders him to see such an expression coming from _Al_ , who has always been on the same wavelength as him for as long as they can remember. “What are you _talking_ about?”

Ed stops, blinking. The rest of the calculations are all thrumming inside his head, blurring and buzzing and spinning like a whirlwind waiting to break loose. But Winry is staring at him, half-amazed and half-perplexed, the intensity of her confusion only made more prominent by the fact that it’s mirrored by Al. He looks at the two of them, suddenly uncertain of himself, and then glances down at the bowl of soup. In what remains of it, his reflection peers back at him with a wild, burning light in his eyes, unlike anything he’s ever seen before.

His heart leaps to his throat. Come to think of it, how did he even _know_ all of that? Where did all those facts and figures and the history brimming through each catalyst _come_ from? He certainly doesn’t remember reading about them in any book or learning them from Teacher. Teacher thought catalysts cheapened alchemy and didn’t talk about them beyond their general definitions and terminology.

So what the hell.

“I...”

There’s a burst of warm laughter as Majhal approaches the table again, this time with plates and desert forks. To Ed’s dismay, he notices that flare of admiration that was once directed at Dad is now, in all it’s entirety, directed at him. “It seems you’ve inherited your father’s dizzying intellect, young man.”

He feels his ears warming and nods mutely. The Gate was silent that time. Was that all _him_? Or was it something the Gate left behind _in_ him, dressed in his own thoughts?

The checkered blanket is pulled back to reveal a small but rather delicious-looking cake, golden-brown in color and giving off an aroma that gives Ed cavities just from smelling it. Majhal methodically cuts thin wedges that he then transfers to the plates, then passes to him and Winry. They both thank him softly. “Real or not, the Philosopher’s Stone is still coveted by many an alchemist. The stories that surround it—they call it the most powerful piece of alchemy to exist in the world.”

Sweetness fills Ed’s mouth as he takes a bite. This is damn good cake. Why would anyone just give this away? Majhal doesn’t know what he’s missing. “Oh yeah?”

“Some say it can even defy the Law of Equivalent Exchange.”

An electric bolt of—something—goes through Ed at that. It shocks him into sitting straighter, into gripping his fork might harder than he ought to. If it were his steel fist, he has no doubt that the softer flatware might have bent easily. “It—It can actually—”

“It might be your best chance.” Majhal’s smile is thin and enigmatic, only a touch amused. “Aside from human transmutation, of course.”

The jibe goes unnoticed in favor of the flurry of calculations going through Ed’s mind. S-Class catalyst. The Philosopher’s Stone. If there’s _actually_ something that could ignore Equivalent Exchange—if there’s actually something that can give Truth the metaphorical middle finger and wipe that godforsaken grin off its blurry face and get Al his body back—

If there’s even a _chance_ —

...but.

_“Is there anything **else** I’m not allowed to look at?”_

_“Yes. The Philosopher’s Stone. You must never look into it.”_

And abruptly, the hope budding in his heart stalls, pauses, sputters like a dysfunctional engine. (The _last_ time they looked into something they weren’t supposed to—)

“Didn’t Uncle Van mention the Philosopher’s Stone in his notes?” Winry’s asking, drawing him back to reality.

“Yeah.” Al shrugs, a bit absent-minded. Ed wonders if Dad also extended the same warning to him, made him promise not to look into it. “But he never mentioned what it was.”

This seems to take Majhal by surprise. “Really? Not once?”

“No,” Ed says immediately. He never told Al about that day— _especially_ not after they decided to study human transmutation. But. Still. “Why?”

Majhal looks first at Ed, then at Al, and then raises his brows in surprise. “Your father’s research revolved around seeking the Stone. He made it sound like it was his life’s work.”

“...what?”

_“What’s that?”_

_“Nothing you need to worry about. Promise, Ed.”_

_“I promise.”_

Then why... Why would he...

Dad made them _promise_ not to look at his research, to not bother with completing it or studying it after he passed. And when promises were made, they were meant to be _kept_. Ed never forgot the promise to avoid human transmutation while he and Al labored on their theory, though at the time he rationalized that even if they broke it, Dad would be back with them and it would have been worth it. Still, he wrestled with it a lot, over those few years.

But now he thinks about his father, half-delirious with pain and fever, on the very precipice of death, insisting they leave his research be. Did it involve the Philosopher’s Stone? If what Majhal said is true, then the possibility existed. Even if it was started twenty years ago, when Van Hohenheim was young and brash, some alchemists were known to labor on their theories for decades at a time, or even their entire lives. And someone as stubborn as Dad wouldn’t just abandon a lead for no reason.

Were they perhaps interconnected, those two promises? Did Dad not want to burden them with his research, or was there some other, more selfish reason attached to it?

“You’re kidding,” Al says for the second time that night. Ed isn’t the only one shaken by this revelation—there’s a pitchy note to his brother’s tone that comes more from shock than from excitement.

“I’m not,” replies Majhal simply. “I think his interest stemmed mostly from the fact that the Stone’s origins can be traced to Xerxes—” He stops, suddenly, and something on Ed’s face must give away his distress (Al too, but Al can’t emote), because his mouth pinches into a frown. “...he really never mentioned this to you.”

“...no.” A pang of betrayal stings Ed’s chest. He looks down at the largely untouched slice of honey cake and suddenly can no longer stand the sight of it. “He didn’t.”

A beat of silence lapses over the room. The distant whistle of the draft grows louder.

Winry claps her hands together loudly. “Say, um, Mr. Majhal? I know this might sound like an intrusion and all, but would it be okay if we stayed here? Just—because it’s late and all, and the _Witch_ —”

“There’s no such thing as witches,” Ed and Majhal snap, in eerie unison.

Ed turns to him in surprise while Majhal only huffs distastefully. “The rumors those ignorant children come up with.”

“What do you mean?” Winry’s brows furrow.

For a moment, Majhal is silent and contemplative. There’s something sorrowful in the glimmer of his eye, something that makes the age lines on his face more pronounced. Then he sighs, and his shoulders seem to sag beneath the weight of time. “It’s a long story, and it’s very late. We can discuss it in the morning. You’ll find a spare bedroom down the hall.”

* * *

Even just being across the hall, using the water-closet to change, Winry can’t help the anxiety that comes from being on her own. There’s still that underlying thrum of unease that comes from imaging the Witch lurking at every corner, but it’s something else, too. Something about the lack of knickknacks and the sheer amount of dust in every place, as though Majhal had simply allowed age to ravage the building (something Uncle Van would have never allowed). The mirror has brownish stains of water damage across its reflective surface, so her image in it is warped and discolored. Rust coats the faucet. The sink itself is grimy. She has to keep her socks on, because the tiles are so dirty that she hesitates to step on them.

But it’s not just the house that rubs her the wrong way, she thinks as she steps out into the hall, undoing her ponytail and letting her hair cascade to her shoulders. She can tolerate dust and grime. It goes against the meticulous cleanliness that she, as an amateur surgeon and apprentice automail engineer, has learned, sure, but Rockbell women are notoriously enduring. But it’s more... Majhal, really. Something about him, just, _rubs_ her the wrong way. And it’s more than just the impulsiveness with which he wanted to examine Al, though that itself set off red flags. Anyone who can dehumanize another person so quickly, soul-bound suit of armor or no, can’t be entirely right in the head, right? But it’s also the way he gazes at her, and Al, and Ed with this... weirdly calculative look, like he’s filing away the way they talk and move and even freaking _breathe_ to use against them at a later date.

Plus there’s the whole _living on the edge of town in a dilapidated house_ thing. That’s _inherently_ creepy.

As she approaches the doorframe, she catches Al’s voice through the crack. “...seemed kind of quiet, that’s all,” he’s saying, the words soft and mired in concern.

“I’m pissed about how he treated you,” Ed retorts, though there isn’t much force to it. She can hear the yawn he’s trying vainly to stifle. “If he does that again, tell me. I’ll knock his lights out.”

“Brother, you don’t—”

“Yeah I do.” There’s something strikingly bland about the way Ed says this. It’s as though he’s talking about how the sky is blue or the grass is green or anything else that simply is the way it is. And anyone who contests this is simply denying reality as it is. “I’m you’re older brother. ‘S what’m here for.”

There’s a brief pause. Winry feels like an intruder, lingering outside the door as she is and listening in on something that really doesn’t involve her. But at the same time, she can’t bring herself to move or go inside or even clear her throat to alert them of her presence.

“Brother?” Al’s voice is tentative, uncertain. “Are you... upset about Dad? And the Philosopher’s Stone?”

Another pause.

“No,” Ed admits finally, and genuinely doesn’t sound angry. But there is a listlessness to his voice that is unusual in a bad way, and it makes her chest clutch. “It... _bugs_ me, I guess. I can’t really wrap my head around _why_... But I’m not, like, _mad_ or anything. Just... not really sure how to feel about the whole thing, honestly.”

“Yeah.” Slow, soft creaking. She can imagine Al curled up in one corner, knees to his chest and head downturned. “Me neither.”

Impulsively, Winry slips through the door. The guest room is a small, dusty space with a fraying, ancient-looking quilt thrown over a bed pressed against the side of the wall. There’s really no room for Al, so she’s unsurprised to find him exactly as she envisioned, curled up against the wall in an attempt to take up as little space as possible and looking so emphatically _young_ that it strikes her. She finds Ed stretched out along the length of the bed, arms crossed behind his head as a pillow and one leg thrown over the other, his eyes staring aimlessly at the ceiling. His coat and the outer jacket are draped over the end of the bed, his boots deposited at the foot alongside his suitcase and her workbag.

They both glance over at her as they approach, weary and wistful and lacking any suspicion as to whether or not she was listening. That, she supposes, wouldn’t be unusual if it were just Al, but Ed has a natural inclination towards defensiveness, especially with private conversations. It’s why they’re more inclined to have such discussions in Xerxian, so that no one can understand. The fact that he doesn’t seem to care how much she could have heard really speaks to how tired he is, how tired he looks.

She doesn’t ask if they thought Majhal was weird, like she initially planned to. Instead she carefully closes the door behind her, listens to the soft click of the latch bolt sliding into place.

Ed heaves himself upright, but with great effort, as though the quilt were somehow sucking him down against the mattress. “You can have the bed, if you want.”

“That’s okay,” she finds herself saying. A nice soft bed _does_ sound appealing, she’s not going to lie. But... the flutter of the curtains sends a shiver down her spine. “The further I am from the window, the safer I’ll feel.”

A scowl crosses Ed’s face at that. Not a mean-spirited one, but more doubtful and irritated than anything else. Behind him, the drapes leave only a sliver of darkness visible. “You’re not _still_ on about that, are you?”

Biting her lip, she grabs the of the quilt and gives it a pointed tug. With a huff, Ed rolls off of it, allowing her to pull it free from beneath him. The action sends an enormous spray of dust into the air, thick and grey and ancient. She pauses to cough on the vestiges of age, and she hears Ed join her—when she re-emerges with a gasp of fresh air, his throat is stinging and her eyes are watery. She scrubs at them with the back of her hand.

The fabric of the quilt is rough and scratchy, but the color is a softer pastel that is almost feminine in a way. She bunches it up in her hands. “Something killed those girls, Ed.”

“It wasn’t a witch though,” Ed mutters, grabbing a pillow and throwing onto the ground. It lands with a stifled _thump_. “Make-believe things can’t hurt you.”

She pulls the quilt close to her chest. All of a sudden she feels six again, a little girl hiding under her bedsheets from the boogeyman. Only she knows for a fact, now, that there is a boogeyman out there, and that’s just it—it’s not make-believe anymore. “Why do you think I’m scared, you idiot?”

To that, Ed doesn’t say anything.

Al creaks as he turns to her, those soulfire eyes shimmering with a sort of deep-seated concern. “We won’t let anything happen to you, Winry. Promise.”

Part of her already knows that—but hearing it aloud warms her inside. “Thanks.”

They settle into their respective sleeping positions without much preamble or further conversation. Ed murmurs a soft “night” and then he’s out like a light the moment his head hits the pillow. Winry doesn’t care what Granny says—he’s got some form of narcolepsy, or some other sleep disorder. People do _not_ just drop out of consciousness that easily.

“Goodnight Al,” she says.

“Goodnight Winry.”

It always makes her heart clench, to know that Al can’t sleep, that Al spends the night alone with his own thoughts. Biting her lip, she flicks off the light and submerges the room in an oppressive darkness that seems to press against the walls, like it’s trying to spill out from the confines of the room. The quilt feels heavy as she settles beneath it, as though the weight of it might slowly crush the air from her lungs she sleeps. It itches against her bare shoulders and she buries her face in the linen pillow case, trying not to breathe in the staleness of the scent.

Al’s eyes glow ominously in the gloom. They never dim or falter.

At some point, she must fall asleep, because she wakes in the middle of the night with her heart hammering in her throat and every nerve electrified.

There’s no afterimage in the back of her mind, no trace of a nightmare that would stir her in the black depths of sleep. The air is far too still, almost painfully so. Shapes begin to emerge in the dark, warped and blurry and twisted into monstrous forms. Something _glows_ , though, bright and bloody red—

But it’s just Al and his soulfire eyes. She presses a hand to her chest with a relieved sigh, her heart slowing back to its regular pace. Judging from the slow breathing above her, Ed is still dead to the world.

“Winry?” There’s an odd tremor to Al’s voice. She hasn’t heard him sound like that since Uncle Van got sick.

“Yeah?” she whispers. She isn’t sure why she’s speaking so softly. Ed could probably sleep through gunfire. But something about the silence feels fragile, somehow. And she doesn’t want to break it.

It’s only as she takes a closer look that she realizes there’s _fear_ shining in the red glow. His gaze is fixed firmly on the window. “D-Did you... hear that?”

Apprehension is quick to return, at that, forming a subtle buzz against her sternum. Her heart quickens again. That prickly sensation of anticipation settles against the back of her neck and already her senses are sharpening with the beginnings of panic. “Hear what?” she asks, perhaps a little too sharply.

And then she hears it—a shrill, blood-curdling shriek from afar. There is pain and hysteria and terror in every octave of it. It seems to pierce right to her bone and seize her, wholly and completely. Goosebumps erupt across her flesh and her heart is screaming where it’s leaped into her throat to choke her and her lungs have stopped functioning and—

Abruptly, it goes silent. Somehow, that’s even more terrifying.

A shudder goes through Al’s armor. It sounds vaguely of pots and pans clacking together. “Y-You don’t _think_...”

She can’t muster a response. Her heart is too busy strangling her, and her mind is backpeddaling to Klaus’s description of her sister’s corpse.

_Face contorted like she died mid-scream. Like she had the life sucked out of her._

Winry does not well sleep that night.

* * *

The next morning, Ed wakes to an alarmed yelp in his ear and then the ground slamming painfully into his face. There’s an audible _crack_ as his knee and arm hit the hardwood, his skull throbbing. His vision briefly flashes with white sparks of pain before he catches the sound of Winry’s voice from overhead, shouting furiously.

“Ow,” he deadpans, and looks up. His forehead hurts. A couple things hurt, actually. Winry glares down from at, fists planted on her hips and brows furrowed in annoyance. Buttery morning light sifts through the curtains and adds an overwhelming sense of greyness to the room. Last night, the shadows had added shape and character to the walls, but now everything is suffused in paleness.

“That’s what I should be saying!” she snaps. The brightness from behind creates a backlight against the vanilla-cream spill of her hair, which jolts out on one side in a staticy mess. Her quilt is tangled at her feet and, further behind her, the bed he slept in is in a total sense of disarray—sheets knotted and pillow askew and his coat tangled up in it, adding a single flash of color. “Do have _any_ idea how rude it is to be woken up by an absurdly-heavy midget falling on top of you?”

He bolts to his feet with fury in his veins and scarlet flashing across his vision. “WHO’RE YOU CALLING SO SMALL THAT ANTS COULD BEAT HIM UP?”

“You, you ant-sized TWERP!” she retorts, also leaping to her feet. Dammit it all to hell, _why_ does she have to be taller than him?

“At least _I’m_ not an unfeminine GEARHEAD!”

Her blue eyes fill his vision. “Well at least _I’m_ tall enough to teach the sink without having a STEPPING STOOL!”

His forehead touches hers. “ _I can reach the damn sink!_ ”

“Maybe if you have a ladder on hand!”

“At least I’m not best friends with a _wrench_!”

Their conversation is interrupted when the door opens. They both to see Al there, head ducked low to avoid hitting the top of the doorframe and tentatively peering around the door. Their disgruntlement must be plain to see, because a sigh echoes hollowly though the armor.

“...I was gone for _fifteen seconds_.”

“He”—Winry jabs an accusing finger in Ed’s face. It hovers just in front of his nose and he goes slightly cross-eyed peering at it.—“ _fell_ on me!”

With a growl, he slaps her hand away. Only when she winces does he realize he accidentally used the steel one. Whoops. He’ll apologize when he’s less pissed. “It wasn’t on purpose, dammit!”

“A likely story!”

“Who _asks_ to not sleep soundly?”

A dubious frown pinches her features, but it smooths out the next moment with something more sympathetic. She looks away, biting her lip. “You _were_ tossing and turning a lot...”

Briefly, he flashes back to that hazy juncture between sleep and consciousness, trying to pick out the fuzzy, faded forms of his dreamscape and—

**(—the classes of catalysts were invented by Katarina A. Favaron in 1762, in early August, it was a drizzly Wednesday—)**

...more Gate-dreams. Yay.

“I had a rough night.” He runs his flesh hand through his hair and notices his braid is falling out. Deftly, he tugs it loose, placing his hair tie between his teeth, and starts from scratch. Thankfully, he slept with his gloves on, and neither of them came off, so there’s no hair getting caught in his finger joints. “Bu’ m’fine.”

Al gazes at him silently for a moment, then steps fully into the room. “...did you hear the screaming too?”

Ed pauses, taking his hair tie back out of his mouth. “What screaming?”

“He probably didn’t hear it, Al.” Winry smooths her bedhead out onehandedly, teasing the frizz with deft fingers. He suddenly realizes she has dark smudges under her eyes. “No offense, Ed, but you sleep like the d— like a rock.”

The fact that she catches herself doesn’t go unnoticed, and a flicker of apprehension goes through him as he secures his braid. “What screaming? What are you talking about?”

Winry and Al exchange a worried look with one another before pointedly looking away. “There was screaming last night,” Al murmurs, timidly clasping one hand in the other. “It sounded... like a girl in pain. It was on and off for a while—and then it just... stopped.”

“It sounded like it came from right outside,” Winry whispers. There’s something wide and fearful about her eyes.

A spark of anxiety goes off in Ed’s chest at that. He glances out the window. There’s only a thin slit of wan light pouring through, with no hint at what lays outside it. Neither the woods or Majhal’s shack are clearly visible from here, but they’re the only things out there.

Right?

 _Witchcraft isn’t real._ He brushes past Winry and tugs his coat free. The burst of scarlet color is abruptly bright.

“I smell food,” Ed says, throwing his coat on. One sleeve over the other. It feels so much better to have the fleece weight on his shoulders. “Do you think breakfast is almost ready?”

Winry looks completely unimpressed by his attempt to change the subject. “Do you ever think about anything other than food and alchemy?”

“Shut up. I’m famished.” As he usually is in the mornings. It probably has something to do with the automail or something. Carrying all that weight around requires extra energy.

“When _aren’t_ you?” Al jokes, though the humor is a tad stale.

_Brat!_

Breakfast is a rather somber affair that consists of no one really speaking to one another as they endure their eclectic combination of reheated tomato soup and leftover honey cake. Majhal once again apologized for not having anything else in the house, though Winry assured him it was fine and Ed didn’t particularly mind. Sure, the watery soup and its earthier flavors juxtaposed the rich sweetness of the desert, but he didn’t lie when he said he was famished.

“So, uh, Mr. Majhal,” Ed begins tentatively. The honey cake is absolutely fantastic. He makes a mental note to find the person who made it and send them his compliments. “Can I ask about that, uh, building? Behind the house?”

“You mean my laboratory.” Unlike him and Winry, Majhal hasn’t touched the honey cake, instead content to sip vermillion broth. It’s a little strange, considering the desert was a gift specifically _for_ him.

“Is _that_ what it is?” A laboratory actually makes sense.

“Oh yes.” Majhal carefully dabs a napkin over his mouth. He seems far more reserved than he was last night, though he continues to cast subtle looks Al’s way. If Al notices, he doesn’t pay any mind. “You see, one of the things you learn as an alchemist is that it’s better to conduct experiments _outside_ your home.”

Again, that makes sense, and Al nods understandingly at Ed’s side. When you’re testing the waters of a new reaction or transmutation, there’s a good possibility something could go wrong. And if that happens, then you run the risk of destroying your living space. Dad always used to make them practice their experiments outside so they didn’t accidentally blow up the furniture. “I learned the hard way that it’s quite difficult to alchemically repair a melted couch,” he told them once.

Majhal sets his napkin down and sends Ed an appraising look. “Why do you ask?”

“Uh... curiosity, mostly. I just didn’t know what it was.” He probably should mention the screaming Al and Winry heard, but the scientific part of him is reluctant. While he doesn’t think either of them would lie about it, it feels dishonest to postulate based on evidence that he hasn’t experienced for himself.

“Fair enough, I suppose.” Majhal collects his bowl and gets up to place it in the sink. The minute his back is turned, Winry swaps her still-filled bowl with Ed’s empty one. Ed sends her a look of sheer gratitude. “Would anyone like seconds?”

A deeply conflicted look appears on Winry’s face. “I kind of want more cake...”

“Then ask for more cake,” Al says simply. And people think _Ed_ is blunt!

“I can’t do that! It was a gift!”

“Oh, nonsense.” Majhal returns with a plate featuring another slice, which he sets down atop Winry’s previous, now-empty plate. “Lebi means well, I’m sure, but I’ve never felt right accepting anything she brings me. Equivalent Exchange and all.”

Now, Ed understands what he’s saying, but it strikes him as odd. Dad always said that it’s rude to look a gift horse in the mouth, that turning down kindness can be an insult. “Yeah, but that’s how the world works, right? You do something for someone, and they do something for you, and then you’ve both helped each other out. It’s not a _bad_ thing.”

A little chuckle leaves Majhal as he settles back down into his seat. “You’ve a lot to learn about the world.”

Well... there’s no need to be _patronizing_ about it. Ed swallows another spoonful of soup.

Curiosity glimmers in Al’s soulfire eyes. “Does this, um, Lebi person—does she often give gifts like this, Mr. Majhal?”

“Every now and again.” Majhal carefully folds one hand over the other and seems to study his fingers contemplatively. “I’m not quite sure why. She’s a florist from the neighboring town, Lilyridge, and she settled here a few months ago. Again, I’m not really sure why. But she’s taken to popping by every now and again with jam or biscuits or whatnot.”

Al hums thoughtfully, tilting his head up just a little. Then, looking back at Majhal, he asks, “Is she the one who owns the flower shop near here? The one with the lavender roses—I saw them as we were on our way here.”

For some reason, Majhal frowns a little distastefully at that. “Yes, Lebi has a certain fondness for roses. Although... they’ll never be able to match Karin’s.”

At the mention of Karin, Ed swallows thickly, and Winry pauses in the process of cutting a piece of cake with her fork. “Karin,” he repeats carefully. “Karin like the witch, Karin?”

The distaste on Majhal’s face deepens into what Ed might also mistake for disgust. It makes the lines of his gaunt face all the more pronounced. “Karin was no witch, I assure you. She was a kind and gentle soul, and it _sickens_ me now to hear those accusations. If any of you had know her in life, you would know she would never hurt _anyone_.”

Absently, Ed notices that Majhal’s hands have clenched, tight like vices. He’s never noticed before, but the older man’s nails are just a bit too long. They could puncture flesh.

“What about the blue roses?” Al inquires blithely. “Klaus mentioned that she grew blue roses, and that roses don’t really come in that color.”

Majhal’s hands relax. Ed wonders if he imagined it. “That’s true. Of course, you’ll find that, with modern science, nature can be duped from time to time.”

“You _alchemized_ them,” Ed realizes. Then, turning to Winry, he says, “I _told_ you there’s no such thing as witchcraft.”

She only huffs and doesn’t reply. She just can’t accept that he was _right_.

Smiling thinly, Majhal nods. There’s something distant and familiar about the look in his eyes. “I used to go into her shop every day to adjust the petal pigmentation.” He chuckles softly, but it sounds different. Brighter, somehow. Fond. “It made her wildly popular—of course, it also gave me an excuse to talk to her!”

Something sad and sympathetic emerges Winry’s face, then. She sets her fork down. “You were in love with her.”

“...using the past tense might be a bit arrogant of me.” The smile becomes a little sharper, like a crushed glass.

(Dad sometimes wore the same expression when he glanced out the window—)

Suddenly embarrassed, Ed looks away. “And then she died, right?”

“Yes,” Majhal says, all at once somber. The wistfulness is still there, but it’s like a light you’d never noticed had been on the whole time was suddenly flicked off, plunging everything in darkness. With startling clarity, Ed realizes the expression on Majhal’s face is one of wistful longing, aching for someone who can never return.

( _except Trisha **chose** not to come back_ )

Silence lapses over the room. Al is sending a glance Ed’s way, but he pointedly ignores it.

Winry claps, abruptly loud. “Say, Mr. Majhal? You wouldn’t happen to have any books on the Philosopher’s Stone on you, would you?”

“Oh, of course.” Snapped from his daze, Majhal once again withdraws in upon himself. “Although I warn you, they’re not particularly detailed. Mostly legends and speculation.”

Ed tries to stifle his disappointment. He sets his spoon down in the now-empty soup bowl. “Nothing concrete?”

“I’m afraid not.” There’s genuine sympathy in the senior alchemist’s sentiment. “For all its power, the Philosopher’s Stone is rather mythic. And my resources are limited—we regular alchemists don’t have the State’s vast libraries to access, after all.”

True. State Alchemists, in exchange for signing away their personal freedom to the military, are rewarded with funding and resources and everything a self-respecting scientist would value. But the price always seemed too high, somehow. “Okay. Well. It’s a start, at least.”

A sudden gleam of excitement fills Majhal’s eye as he turns to Al. “Although, as I said before, I’m an expert on the subject of soul-binding. If you need _any_ assistance—”

“That’s fine,” Ed intervenes, and makes sure to put enough force behind it. Majhal turns to him in surprise. He smooths out his expression and replaces his scowl with an unassuming smile. “Let’s just take a look at those books.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I wish this had more plot content. On the other hand, it's polished and it flows and if not for the copious exposition, I would probably not hate it.
> 
> Regardless, though—with this, I have officially posted over two-hundred thousand words in FMA fanfic. Pretty impressive for someone who just got into the fandom this January, huh?
> 
> Alchemic catalysts are mentioned briefly in the '03 anime, specifically episodes 11-12, where they officially classify the Philosopher's Stone as a catalyst. Red Stones and Red Water are also brought up in these episodes as other catalysts, but are compared and contrasted to the Philosopher's Stone. Implying that there are different types of catalysts.
> 
> Naturally, my brain felt the need to take this little bit of info and expand upon it and here we are.
> 
> Terminology:  
> *Life-limit = the measurement of an alchemic catalyst. Similar to how radioactive isotopes are measured in half-lives, alchemic catalysts are measured in how much transmutation energy they can be paired with before they destabilize. When a catalyst has a low life-limit, it is unsafe to use. Destabilization of a catalyst mid-transmutation results in rebound.
> 
> A lot of the “catalysts” that the Gate brings up are based loosely on actual alchemic substances or alchemical terms for substances. Azoth, for example, was another name for mercury and was considered an alchemical tincture. Some considered it an ingredient for the Philosopher’s Stone. Others include:  
> \--Arbor Diana, also called the Philosopher’s Tree, is a crystallization of silver nitrate that grew to resemble roots. Some believed it to be a precursor to the Philosopher’s Stone.  
> \--Arcanum joviale, a pre-modern medical term that describes an amalgam made from digesting mercury and tin in nitric acid.  
> \--Aqua vitae, or “water of life”, described an aqueous solution of ethanol. Also called “spirit of wine”.  
> \--Lapis solaris, an ancient name for Balogna Stone, or baryte. It was named as such for its phosphorescence.  
> \--Flowers of antimony, known today as arsenic trioxide.  
> \--Lapis infernalis, fused silver nitrate that forms a more calcified state. Also called “lunar caustic”.  
> \--Verdigris, known as copper (II) acetate or, more colloquially, the green rust you see on copper.  
> \--Regulus antimony, in modern terms known as highly-purified antimony. Literally less than one percent of it consisted of impurities.
> 
> Things I made up:  
> \--Trevisan’s vitriol. Vitriol is an archaic name for sulfate and was believed by some to be an ingredient for the Philosopher’s Stone on account of its ability to dissolve metals with ease, with the exception of gold. Some people equated it with the ultimate solvent, the alkahest. Bernard Trevisan was some random Italian alchemist from the 15th century whose name I used.  
> \--Corona realgar. Realgar is a toxic combination of arsenic and sulfur which comes together to form a rather striking red mineral. Chinese alchemists used it in their practices, unfortunately for them. The “corona” part was tacked on as a distinguishing factor.  
> \--Massicot tears. Massicot is real, existing as a lead (II) oxide, but “massicot tears” aren’t.  
> \--Kaiser’s bluestone. Bluestone, also known as blue vitriol or copper (II) sulfate pentahydrate, exists, but “Kaiser’s” was tacked on as a distinguishing factor.  
> \--Imperial marcasite. Marcasite, aka white iron pyrite or iron sulfide, is a real mineral. The “imperial” part was tacked on as a distinguishing factor.  
> \--Aqua aurelia. Loosely translating as “gold water”, there is no such thing. You’ll find aqua ragia, aqua tofani, aqua regia, aqua fortis, and aqua vitae—but no “aqua aurelia”.
> 
> I apologize for the copious amounts of exposition and information-dumping. Working through chapter felt like wading through the sewage of my own creative process. As always, questions and or needed clarifications are always available to those who need it. 
> 
> Sincerely yours,  
> The Immortal Moon


	13. Love Planted a Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How am I supposed to _move on_?” Klaus screams all of a sudden. She whirls around with absolute _fury_ in her eyes, a dry burning that threatens to make them spontaneously combust. “My sister didn’t just _die_ , dammit! She was _killed_ by the _Witch_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for 1000+ views!

_“I wanna be immortal_  
_Like a God in the sky_  
_I wanna be a silk flower_  
_Like I'm never gonna die”_  
—Marina and the Diamonds, “Immortal”

 

_~1911_

Ed really needs to cut black from his wardrobe. Winry is saying this both as his friend and as someone who is overheating from wearing his shirt for a little under an hour.

Both brothers had given her a _look_ when she had decided to take Klaus’s words to heart and disguise her femininity—Ed gave one of exasperation, while Al gave her one of nervous understanding—though neither really questioned her. Ed had initially offered to transmute her clothes into something more boyish, but she flat-out refused because those are her clothes and no, she is not getting alchemy all over them. Especially not with his terrible taste. If he had it his way, her clothes would probably end up covered in flames and skull-and-crossbones. He asked her what the hell she thought she was going to wear, then, to which Al made the suggestion of her donning _his_ clothes, to which Ed balked and started up a string of vehement denials.

Which is why it’s an absolute wonder that she is here, wearing a little too much black for her comfort.

Plus, the pants are too short. Her ankles are exposed. She still remembers the way Ed’s face had reddened when he saw that and he stormed off, muttering something about research that needed to be done. Al sent a pitying look his way, while Winry smothered a snicker into her hand.

Well, thanks to these clothes and the makeshift cap she tucked her hair under, she really doesn’t look like a girl at all. Her reflection passes across the window of the bakery, and it is that of a gangly blond boy with a face that is a little too soft. She scowls and the problem is corrected—suddenly she looks tough and mean.

_Yeah. I can totally pass for a boy!_

Al, who insisted on accompanying her while Ed remained at Majhal’s place to research, slows to a halt at her side. “Why are you walking like that?”

By that, he means the long, high-kneed strides she’s taking. She tilts her chin up a little and puffs her chest out. “I’m trying to walk like a guy.”

“You’re strutting like rooster,” Al observes, not unkindly.

“Roosters are male, aren’t they?” That means it’s working, then. All the boys back in Risembool, too, used to walk around like the world was theirs to own, cocky and drunk on their own testosterone idiocy.

He stares at her for a moment, then shakes his head and continues his slow, shuffle-clank after her.

“You really didn’t have to come, you know.” Bumble Hollow is a very quaint little town, with exactly one of everything save for apiaries. There are quite a few bee-farms, actually, each owned by a different family which, if the village is anything like Risembool, have probably tended to it for generations. The people are friendly, albeit a bit tense, and Winry can’t really blame them for that. Between the screaming she heard last night and the witch-stories, she’s unsurprised to find that fear has pervaded this quiet little town, made people jumpy and shifty and caused them to eye her and Al with poorly-concealed suspicion. They’re probably a tight-nit community, and everyone is watching each other’s backs. Plus, Klaus said that her sister was found recently, so that’s no doubt shaken people up even further. “I bet Ed could have used your help.”

For a moment, Al doesn’t say anything. He gazes at a mother and her small child, who immediately ushers off inside the nearest shop. “It’d be safer if you didn’t go around unaccompanied. If I didn’t come, I think Brother might’ve.”

If these were any other circumstances, Winry might have bristled at their protectiveness, but as it is, she only nods minutely. There’s no point in denying that you’re scared if you are. You just have to not let it control you. “I’m not totally helpless though,” she reminds him, and adjusts the strap of her workbag. “I’ve got my tools with me.”

Ed always used to say she was liable to kill someone with the way she threw wrenches and wracked him upside the head. So why not use her tools for self-defense? If someone comes at her, just jab a screwdriver in their eye.

Uneasy, Al turns away. “...the sooner we’re out of this town, the better.”

Up the road is a flower shop with bushels of roses in various colors, white and yellow and red and pink. There’s even a few roses with a vibrant lavender coloration to their petals, so she assumes them to be the flowers Al was talking about earlier. “We’ve got a lead, though. That’s good news, isn’t it?”

“Not if you’re put in danger because of it!” He turns back to her, and fear burns bright in his glowing gaze. It’s a sort of sympathetic fear, something slow and insidious. More like anxiety, really. “The longer we’re here, the higher chance that— _whatever_ it is—could...”

He doesn’t say it, and he doesn’t have to. She quirks a brow in an effort to undermine the stir of anxiety in her belly. “Isn’t that why you insisted coming with me?”

Again, he looks away. An older woman emerges from the flower shop, her greying auburn curls spilling loosely past her shoulders, and she begins tending to the roses. “...it’s also Mr. Majhal. I mean, I’m grateful to him for helping us, but...”

“I know what you mean.” There’s just something weirdly... off about him, somehow. He’s too quiet, his gaze too intense at times. Especially the way it lingers on Al as though a specimen awaiting dissection.

The woman in front of the flower shop is staring at them. When Winry glances her way, she quickly averts her gaze. She half expects the woman to dart back into the shop, because goodness knows no one else has been entirely keen to have her or Al’s eyes on them, but she doesn’t. Instead, the woman goes back to straightening the flowers.

Curious, Winry glances at Al, who glances back at her with a similar inquiry. They both make their way across the street.

“I didn’t mean to stare,” says the woman as they approach. Winry nearly jumps, but as the woman turns to him, she just smiles serenely, close-lipped and kind. Her face is a striking thing—if she had any beauty once, then age has pillaged it, leaving behind creases around her eyes and mouth, and wrinkles that line the curvature of her neck so that it looks vaguely like a turkey’s. But her hair is still full and thick, streaked with silver though it is, and there’s a sparkle in her brown eyes like distilled laughter. “It’s just a little unusual to see strangers around here. Especially ones wearing such... elaborate apparel.”

Sheepishly, Al shuffles his feet, his gaze carefully downturned but not to the point where it’s rude. “We’re, uh, only staying temporarily. Just visiting.”

“Is that right?” The woman’s tone is overtly genial, and there’s no real suspicion on her face. Unlike the rest of the townsfolk, who keep sending Al and her sidelong glances. “Well, don’t be too put out if the people don’t warm up to you. They’re not overly friendly this time of year, it seems. Or in general, to outsiders.”

“You’re friendly,” Winry points out.

“Well, dear, I speak from experience.”

Blinking, Winry mulls that over for a moment. She looks at the flower shop and the sign that hangs from it, with lettering she can’t make out from this angle. Then she peers at the roses and their lovely pastel colors, the exquisite blue-lilac shade. It clicks. “Um, are you by chance Lebi?”

“That’s me.” Lebi blinks, but again, there’s no suspicion on her face. “And I suppose you’re the travelers who are staying with James Majhal?”

“Temporarily,” Al reiterates. “Um, you have some really nice flowers.”

Though it is a clunky, unsubtle attempt at changing the topic, a brilliant smile blooms across Lebi’s face. All her teeth are bright, pearly white. She gingerly touches the nearest lavender rose with a weathered hand. “Why thank you for saying so. Most people here aren’t too fond of roses these days. Apparently they have a bad connotation or something. I’ve always far too many left over.”

Probably the connection to Karin, if Winry had to guess. She doesn’t say anything.

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to give me a hand, would you?” There’s something sheepish but humored in the way Lebi says that. Her voice has a faint croak to it, but there’s no denying the warmth in it, the hint of amusement in her eyes. It strikes Winry just how _open_ she is, how unfettered and wholly she expresses each and every emotion. “I hate to ask a perfect stranger, but I’ve gotten used to having an assistant, and...”

As she trails off, sorrow suffuses across her expression, deep and raw. Lebi turns away, face bowed before the flowers, so that her graying curls obscure her face. It doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots and Winry’s heart clenches. “It was that Liesel girl, wasn’t it? Who helped you?”

“Yes.” Abruptly, Lebi straightens, the pain in her expression straining around the mask of solemnness she’s trying to force. A finger glides across the petals of the nearest rose, which is a shade of red so deep it looks as though its been dipped in fresh blood. “She was looking for an apprenticeship, I think. But now...”

While the grief is not quite similar to Klaus’s, it still makes Winry’s throat close up. Impulsively, she says, “I’d love to help.”

Lebi’s shop, even the inside of it, is brimming with flowers of every kind and variety. Their aromas fill the very air itself, sickly sweet and multitextured, so many perfumes that Winry doesn’t know which one to focus on first. There’s also a rich, poignant earthy undertone that reminds her of when she helped her mother in the garden, weeding and planting tulips every spring. In one corner sits clusters of cyclamens with delicate fairy-pink buds, vivid anemone blooms that look like fireworks exploding against the night sky, and drooping asphodel that hang their heads in mourning. Crocuses make up another corner, gentle and springtime-colored, neighboring with gawdy geraniums and modest carnations, while flowering azalea bushes bask in clay pots beneath them. Bright, bloody poppies burst from dark potting soil and azaleas join them in their colorful revelry. Primroses flirt alongside snapdragons that stretch out with curious snouts, black-eyed susans winking coquettishly at frolicking marigolds and unabashed violets. Behind a counter marked by a pot of daffodils, their long green stems drooping faintly beneath the weight of butter-yellow heads, entire rows of freshly-cut bouquets are clothed in tasteful wrapping paper.

Winry ends up behind the counter alongside Lebi while Al admires the collection, though she notices that he keeps subtly glancing her way every now and again, while also being careful to never turn his back to them. It’s unnecessary, though, because Lebi never lingers too close or too long, never gives Winry any impression of discomfort—not the way Majhal does, with his intense and shifty eyes. Instead, Lebi requests, gently and without any impression of authority, that Winry gather some specific flowers, to which Lebi wraps them up with meticulous diligence. She talks about each species of flower in an absent manner, to which Winry nods and allows it, because after a while she suspects the woman is simply talking to fill the silence, or perhaps out of habit from having a willing ear.

“These are called ‘jonquil’,” explains Lebi as she fastens the paper, her aged hands moving with startling deftness. Accompanying said flowers are begonias and asters and celosias and chrysanthemums and hydrangeas—Winry didn’t even know what those were until now. “They’re similar to daffodils and grow mostly in the South.”

She eyes the yellow funnel in the flowers’ center, white petals spreading outwards in a six-pointed star around them. They look so like daffodils that it’s almost hard to tell the difference. “...are these flowers for Liesel’s funeral?”

“Yes,” Lebi says softly. She pauses, her unbound curls swathing her neck and shoulders. A stray lock falls over one eye. “...it’s today.”

A note of somberness stretches into silence. Al, who hasn’t said a word the entire time, peers at them with something silent and solemn that looks like it belongs to someone far older.

With a sigh, Lebi sets the fifteenth bouquet down and admires her work for a moment. “I’ll have to get the cart to carry all these.”

“We could help,” Al says suddenly. Evidently he’s decided that the woman isn’t threatening, as he originally thought.

Lebi looks a little taken aback by the request, but she recovers quickly enough. “Oh, no, it’s fine. You’ve helped me enough.”

“ _Winry’s_ helped enough,” he argues. “I haven’t done anything.”

“You don’t have to,” Lebi says. She weaves her fingers together and squeezes her hands.

“I want to.”

To this, Lebi looks a little lost—not ungrateful, but definitely surprised by the conviction behind those three little words. Winry has to stifle a little laugh, because everyone always calls Ed stubborn on account of how vocal and fiery he is, and they forget that Al can be stubborn too. He’s just less blatant about it.

* * *

After a precursory read of the first book Majhal recommends, Ed is severely bewildered to find material of the Philosopher’s Stone so infinitely lacking. There’s a few mentions, here and there, to an enigmatic catalyst that Katarina A. Favaron—the mother of alchemic catalysts—refers to as the “Red Tincture”, which she labels S-Class, but most of the book focuses on theory and details how these catalysts interact with alchemy.

“What the _hell_?” he growls, snapping the book closed and dropping it roughly onto the table. He leans back into his chair, scrubbing his flesh hand over his forehead. “There’s, like, two and a half pages, a few footnotes, and that’s it!”

“The other books go more in-depth,” says Majhal sympathetically. He sets nine more books, all retrieved from his personal library in the back, onto the table in a carefully neat stack. Their covers are colored richly and darkly, though Ed has to wonder just how old they all are. Favaron’s book made references that are laughably outdated—no one’s used Opler’s matrixes in over a century. “I’m going to go out back and do some experiments. Are you alright here on your own?”

With an impatient huff, Ed picks up the book at the top of the pile. It has a deep maroon cover and a brassy relief of the alchemic symbol for the sun—and therefor gold—beneath large, shimmering letters that read _Xerxes: The City Under the Sun_ by Waylon Irving. Ed would like to know where the fuck this Irving guy got his information, if he even did any research at all, because wasn’t just _one city_ , it was a _whole fucking country_. “I guess.”

Exactly half an hour later, he finds himself tearing his hands through his hair and smothering the burning, insidious urge to chuck the volume against the wall. The title isn’t the only thing off-base—everything is skewed to make the ancient country sound like it fell simply from its own ignorance, collapsing beneath the weight of dysfunction and corruption. Before getting into alchemy or culture, Irving discusses the medical technology, but his summations are so wildly inaccurate that it has Ed physically balking at the pages.

According to Irving the Idiot, the reason Xerxes lacked organized hospitals was not because of how exclusive and privatized the whole practice is, but rather that medical practices were so stunted and ignorant that to actually call it a “practice” at all was generous at best. Which is absolutely _preposterous_ , because half of modern medicine _comes_ from the painstaking advancements of Xerxean physicians who honed their craft over centuries. The first records of early vaccinations came out of Xerxes, circa 1460, courtesy of Titus of Kikron. Knowledge about viral infections versus bacterial infections and the treatment of them first emerged in 1394 when it was led by a lady physician named Apollodora. Various toxic chemicals and substances, like mercury poisoning, arsenic exposure, various plants like foxglove and belladonna and their affects on the human body—those were discovered through the joint efforts of Abaris of Bodas, Dryops, and Idas the Elder. Hell! Early understandings of human anatomy came out of the fallen country, thanks to Herais and Sylas.

Wait a sec. He didn’t read that anywhere. How did he—

“Shit.” The fucking _Gate_. “[ _Dammit_.]”

He leaps to his feet and shuffles out into the backdoor. Air. Fresh air. That’ll do him some good.

Unfortunately, there’s an aridness to the air that grates like sandpaper against his lungs. The blazing orange color of the treeline only seems to agitate the near-undetectable presence in his mind further. He lets his gaze sweep out across the scenery, drinking in the faded blue of the sky, not unlike new denim cloth, and the great expanse of leaves that carpet the backyard (if it could be called a backyard, without perimeters or fences). Faded copper and dusty brown crunch underfoot. Next to the vibrance of the golden-red woods, Majhal’s laboratory is a dark silhouette, rickety and old and derelict—something about it makes unease twist in Ed’s gut, makes the Gate niggle harder at his skull. He clenches his jaw and looks away.

There’s a creak as he settles down on the back-porch step and scrubs at his left eye with his flesh hand. The Gate and everything it had left inside him still buzzes surreptitiously inside his mind. He catches whispers, murmurs of a voice that he wishes didn’t sound so much like his. He presses hard against his eye and lets the dull pressure drown it out.

 _Isn’t this what you wanted?_ Truth’s voice sounds too much like his own, a scorching force that reverberates through him. _To know everything? To have the world’s knowledge at your fingers?_

“[Shut up],” he snaps. It doesn’t _hurt_ , but it’s not pleasant, and he sure as hell didn’t ask for his skull to be split open and stuffed full of random shit.

But the Gate doesn’t relent. It continues to vibrate in the back of his mind. He breathes in, breathes out. The damn thing isn’t shutting up any time soon, or leaving him the hell alone.

“[Okay. Fine.]” He drops his hands on his knees, and looks up. He can envision the Gate, all its alchemical symbols, the branches of the tree, the circles, the Xerxean text that littered the vast stone expanse. “[You wanna talk? Talk to me about the Philosopher’s Stone.]”

Abruptly, the Gate falls silent.

“[Oh, _now_ you shut up!]” Distantly, a figure stands against the treeline, a young woman that ripples with a white dress and auburn hair that clashes against the vermillion canopy. “[You won’t leave me alone in my _own fucking head_ —but when I ask you for _help_ , you’ve got nothing to say?]”

There’s no response. In the distance, the leaves crunch and the branches rustle. The white silhouette sinks deeper into the forest.

“[Yeah? Well—fuck you!]” He groans and lets his head fall into his hands.

...wait.

He looks up sharply, heart in his throat. The woman is gone.

There... there’s no way...

“Okay.” He blinks at the place once occupied by—not a witch, because witches aren’t real. Ghosts aren’t real. Souls cannot exist without a vessel. A breeze whips by and sends a skittering of brown leaves into the air. He watches numbly as they swirl in a whirlwind, a loose circle **(—the circle is the guide and the energy flows within—)**. “I’m stressed, and I haven’t slept well, and now I’m hallucinating.”

The breeze stills and the leaves flutter back onto the ground.

“...and talking to myself.” He stands up abruptly. “Fantastic. Twelve-years-old and going crazy. [ _Yay_.]”

As Ed sits down at the table again, Majhal comes into the house and announces that he’s run out of some material that is necessary for his experiments and needs to leave so as to collect more. “I might be gone for a while,” the elder alchemist explains, more than a touch frazzled. “It’s very rare.”

But at that point Ed is trying to bury himself in text and leads and trying to research the Philosopher’s Stone, trying to ignore the thrum in the back of his mind and the face of the woman he saw at the forest’s edge. So he only nods absently and doesn’t give it a second thought.

* * *

Over the course of his life, Al has attended a few funerals. There were those held for the soldiers from Risembool that never made it out of Ishval, which seemed to occur almost monthly, to the point where he, both young and naïve, lost track of the names and the dates and faces. He didn’t attend all of them—Dad usually did, sometimes leaving him and Brother at home for the day with the explicit instruction of not breaking any furniture. Other times, though, when it was someone that they knew a bit more intimately, such as the baker’s son or Mrs. Halliday’s brother-in-law, that they donned black clothes and bowed their heads in respectful silence.

Briefly, he remembers the funeral staged for Auntie and Uncle, when the military had been fooled into believing them dead and they had used this false knowledge to escape the battlefield. It was more somber than all the others, because the grief was more intimate and Al didn’t remember ever seeing his father so close to tears. Or give a eulogy. It was that day that Al actually learned what those speeches were called and why they were given.

As he lingers on the edge of Liesel’s funeral, delicately cradling about a dozen bouquets and feeling like an intruder, he thinks of that funeral. Not Dad’s—that passed so quickly and painfully that he’s nearly blotted the memory out in its entirety. The grief from this funeral is more distant, more of an associative kind, rather than the deep, pressing variety. He is quick to pick out Klaus’s figure, which is small and scrawny in comparison to all the broad-shouldered adults.

There is a eulogy. He and Winry bow their head, but listen. Lebi says something, too, though it is brief and she seems self-conscious about it, because she quickly darts away once she has finished. Afterwards, the flowers are passed around and the coffin is lowered. Al can’t help but notice the casket is closed.

After that, people filter off, their dark-clothed forms like shadows. The family themselves linger longer, but eventually Mr. Danforth places his hand on his wife’s shoulder and urges her along.

He tries to do the same with Klaus, but her shoulders tense and he never actually touches her before she says, “I want to stay.”

Al watches as they exchange looks with one another, the father’s hand stilled in mid-air, then nod to each other. Mrs. Danforth gives her daughter a kiss on the cheek, murmurs something, then allows her husband to lead her away by the hand. Lebi looks uneasy, torn between staying, departing, and going over to comfort Klaus.

“You want to say something to her, don’t you?” At the sound of Winry’s voice, he turns to her in alarm. Her blue eyes, shadowed by the brim of her cap, sparkle with understanding. “It’s okay. Go say something.”

“But...” But the scream from last night. But the so-called Witch-that-isn’t-Karin that’s still out there, stalking young girls. But very the thing that killed Liesel could go after her, too. “I...”

It doesn’t take a genius to guess what he’s thinking, and even then, Winry is very perceptive. Turning to Lebi, she says, “Would it be alright if I spent the rest of the day at your shop? I mean, helping out and such. If it’s not too much of an imposition.”

Though surprised, Lebi seems to realize what this is about and nods graciously. “I’d very much appreciate that, young lady.”

“Come meet me at the flower shop when you’re done,” says Winry, and then she’s turning away before he can protest. With one last, pained look at Klaus, Lebi shuffles off after her.

As he approaches, Klaus doesn’t look up or away from the freshly-tilled soil. The gravestone looks inexpensive but not poorly-made, and the inscription is clean. _Liesel Danforth, Beloved Daughter, 1897-1911._ With a pang, Al realizes that this girl was only fourteen when she died.

“What do you want.” Klaus’s voice is flat and dead.

“I don’t want anything.” He stands beside her. A lot of the bouquets that Lebi carefully crafted were thrown over the coffin and buried with it, but a few have been placed on the dirt surface. Their petals are soft and silken against the dark, fresh earth. He wonders what they smell like.

Her shoulders hunch. She’s wearing an oversized blazer over a white collared shirt, the sleeves loose around her wrists and coming to her fingertips. Her slacks are stuff messily into her dress shoes, and a tie is pulled loosely around her neck. That pageboy cap is still affixed to her head. “Why’re you here, then?”

There are a lot of gravestones around here, Al notices. Most of them are simple, like Liesel’s, and a few have flowers laid down gently before them. He suddenly wonders how much of Lebi’s business consists of flowers for the dead.

In the distance, the treeline burns bright and orange, like the sunset the day Dad died, or the fire that burned their house down. Endings, he realizes wryly, are orange. “I thought you could use company.”

Huffing, Klaus crosses her arms. “I’m allowed to stay here for awhile, y’know.”

“I know.” He looks at the headstone and tries to guess at the composition of the minerals. Granite, probably. Marble is too expensive, too white. Cement feels too cheap, like an insult somehow. “When my father died, my brother and I stayed at his grave all day, right up until the sun set.”

She looks up at him sharply. There’s something guarded and flinty in her teal eyes.

“Our neighbor had to persuade us to come inside.” He remembers the raw burning of his eyes as he cried and cried, even as he was beginning to dehydrate. The way his throat ached and he couldn’t breath through his nose, and Brother stood over him, silent as a wraith, holding back his own sorrow for Al’s sake. “Every Saturday, after the sun set, we’d light a lamp and then go out to the graveyard. And we’d just... sit there. Sometimes we talked, sometimes we didn’t. Sometimes we stayed there all night, or fell asleep in front of the grave. Then we’d wake up in the morning to find the lamp out. We wasted a lot of kerosene over the years.”

Sniffing, she looks away. Her eyes are glossy, cheeks starting to flush. She jabs her hands in her pockets.

“On the anniversary, we transmuted cups that we filled with something alcoholic.” Traditionally, you left a cup of red wine at the grave, but they were too young to purchase wine and Granny usually had some sort of liquor on-hand to use as a substitute. It was often rum, or whiskey, or sometimes bourbon, but the spirit was still there. Either way, they had to dump it out the next morning, and then broke the cup—to symbolize letting go (except they never really did, until recently). “We took these pages. Tore them out of a journal or something, and then we’d write about all the things that had happened since last time. We lit them on fire in front of the grave, so the words would find his soul.” Brother used to call it a silly practice, but the Conservation of Matter said that things don’t disappear, just change form, so Dad’s soul still lingered. And he’d want to hear how they were doing, surely. They always wrote in Xerxean, too, because Dad would have wanted them to practice. “The next morning, Brother always made scrambled eggs, just like Dad used to.” Well, he _tried_ , but they were usually too runny or burnt. If Brother got too frustrated with that and couldn’t whip up something edible enough, he often resorted to making _pelanon_ , an old Xerxean dish that mixed cornmeal, honey, and olive oil. “We never stayed out the night of the anniversary, for some reason.”

When he looks at Klaus again, he finds that she’s crying. Not sobbing loudly or sniffling, but letting the tears run silently down her cheeks, as though simply resigned to their presence, to letting the pain brim and then spill over. Not once has her gaze strayed from the headstone. He wonders is she’s envisioning the person her sister was, someone full of life and laughter, instead of the cold vessel buried beneath the dark earth. “How long ago did your dad die?”

“Three years ago.” It’s still baffling that so much time has passed.

At that, a sob breaks from her, and she raises a hand to scrub furiously at her eyes. “Does it still hurt? Even after all that time?”

“Yeah,” he admits, because of course it does. Nothing will ever change the fact that it hurts. “But what hurt even more is that we didn’t move on. We started to, at first, but then we stopped”—because Al started researching human transmutation and Brother leaped on board and now they’re both like this, steel instead of flesh—“and that made it hurt even more.”

“How am I supposed to _move on_?” Klaus screams all of a sudden. She whirls around with absolute _fury_ in her eyes, a dry burning that threatens to make them spontaneously combust. “My sister didn’t just _die_ , dammit! She was _killed_ by the _Witch_!”

“Klaus—”

Before he can say more, she stomps off to another grave. He notices that her shoes slip, which means they’re a touch too large, but it doesn’t stall her in the slightest. She stops abruptly in front of a nearby headstone, which has grass poking through the tilled soil and shriveled flowers laid before it, the stone weathered and cracked. He can’t read the inscription from here. When she whirls around to face him, her eyes burn like an inferno. Her arm knifes out sharply behind her, finger aimed at the aged slab.

“Seventeen years ago. Molly Kincaid.” Still not tearing her gaze from him, she points to the grave next to Molly Kincaid’s. “Twelve years ago. Emma Rothman.” The grave behind Emma Rothman’s. “Nine years ago. Ingrid Fredericton.”

It only just dawns on him, then, how _large_ the graveyard is. Was the cemetery in Risembool this vast, and he never noticed?

“Seven years ago. Laura Olson.” Behind her. “Six years ago. Jenise Davis.” In front of her. “Four years ago. Stephanie Hutchinson.” Next to her. “Last year. Heather Miller.”

Finally, she marches back up to him, and her gaze does not hesitate, does not falter away from him in the slightest. It looks like something broke inside of her, some dam or barrier that held back all her vehemence, all her vitriol. There’s something poisonous and hateful and ugly on her face as she points behind her, sharply, at Liesel’s grave. She’s crying again, a fresh cascade of tears, but it’s not the kind of crying that earns sympathy. “This year. My sister, Liesel Danforth. That thing is _out there_ , and it’s not going to _stop_.”

He looks back down at the headstone. _Liesel Danforth, Beloved Daughter, 1897-1911_.

“You don’t _know_ who’s next,” she spits, like she’s got a glass shard stuck in her throat. Her lip trembles but there’s nothing pathetic about it, nothing miserable or wretched or trying to garner compassion. Instead it is painful and horrible, hard to stomach. “It could be me, _or_ it could be your little princess friend. Would you be able to move on then? _Huh_? If you found her dead in a _ditch_ one day?”

Last night’s scream pierces his recollection, and a fresh surge of fear goes through his hollow body. Winry, still and unbreathing. Winry, buried beneath the earth. Another funeral, more black clothes. No more Winry to scold them for being stupid or to argue with Brother over trivial things. “I...”

At this point, Klaus is trembling violently, a leaf caught in a whirlwind. She pants hard, chest heaving, eyes wild. Behind her, the autumn woods blaze fire-orange and shed scarlet leaves, like blood dripping from an open wound. Her pointing hand has curled into a white-knuckled fist. “I can’t even wear a _dress_ to _my own sister’s funeral_!” She screams and her voice shatters on impact. “Because _Karin_ is still _out there!”_

Al takes a step back, instinctively raising his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I was just trying to—”

“You wanna _help_? Help me _find_ the bitch and—” Abruptly, Klaus stops, then looks sharply to her left. Her eyes widen to the size of milk saucers and her jaw goes slack. “...holy _shit_.”

It’s only when he turns and follows her gaze that he understands, and a jolt of cold goes through him. Standing on the edge of the treeline, half-hidden by a thick oak, is the form of a beautiful woman—a long mane of auburn curls ripples down to her waist, elegantly framing her delicate, alabaster face. A set of wide, chocolate-brown eyes framed by long, curling black lashes are set beneath thin, arched brows. Full lips, the bottom one larger than the top so that she has something of a pouty look about her, are painted a luscious shade of red that brings to mind fresh blood. Freckles are meticulously scattered across the small swell of her dainty button nose, almost as though with the specific purpose of adding a tiny blemish to her otherwise overall perfection. Her body is a willowy, sculpted thing adorned in an outdated white frock, with puffy sleeves and a waistline that starts just beneath her bust, and from there spills out a long, tulle skirt that swells around her, as though afraid to brush the delicate whiteness of her flesh. One thin, slender hand is braced against the side of the trunk as she peers around it, her face carefully blank.

“ _You_ ,” Klaus spits.

Jerking up straight, the woman— _Karin_ —whirls around and slips off into the woods.

“Oh no you don’t!” Klaus bolts off after her, shouting profanities that Brother might appreciate but Al would rather not repeat.

A belated surge of terror goes through him. “K-Klaus, wait!” He takes off after her, branches thwapping against his form. “Don’t go _after_ her! _Klaus_!”

* * *

Ed opens the door to find Winry on the other end, nearly unrecognizable while wearing his clothes (which gives him this weird, uncomfortable tingle in the pit of his stomach) and her hair tucked away. There’s something about her that reiterates the anxiety from this morning, though it is softer, not quite as raw. At her side is a haggard old woman he doesn’t recognize, draped in a shawl and tasteful frock that looks more fitting for early spring, when there’s still a nip in the air, rather than an arid day like today.

“Hey!” For some reason, she’s carrying a bouquet of splendidly fuchsia dahlias, cradled in the fold of her arm left arm. “How’s the research going?”

“...fine.” Well, that was actually exaggerating, because he’s gone through nine books now and not a single one offers anything concrete on the Philosopher’s Stone. But what’s really strange is _Winry_. With _flowers_.

Oh, and the old woman too. That part’s weird too.

Suddenly realizing there’s a pointed absence behind her, he frowns. “Where’s Al?”

Her expression dims a touch further. “So he didn’t come back here?”

“Why would he?” He’s trying to work out Winry. With _flowers_. _Winry_. The two concepts pinball around in his mind for a moment but don’t connect.

“We... split up after the funeral, and I’ve been helping Lebi out at her shop all day.” Suddenly remembering herself, Winry turns and gestures vaguely to the old bat with her free hand. “Oh, Ed, this is Lebi. Lebi, this is Ed.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” says the old woman with a croaked voice. She holds a gnarled hand out for him to shake. Numbly, he accepts, and he absently notices how tight her grip is. “Winry’s told me so much about you.”

“... _funeral_?” Ed demands, because that’s what’s important here. He can deal with the old lady later. Where’s _Alphonse_?

“He said he would come back to the shop when he was done,” Winry goes on, ignoring the look of wide-eyed panic that has taken residence on Ed’s face. Her features draw into a worried frown as she peers past him, into the dark recesses beyond the doorway. “Where’s Mr. Majhal?”

“Huh? Oh, uh. He went out a couple hours ago. Something about experiments and ingredients.” Honestly, Ed wasn’t paying too much attention at the time. For some reason, this has the woman named Lebi looking faintly disappointed, but there are more important things to worry about. “Winry. Al. Where _is_ he?”

“I don’t know,” she admits and distress jolts through him so strongly his vision actually swims. “We were waiting for him to come back, but it’s been too long. I thought maybe he’d have come back here...”

Ohhh, Ed has a very bad feeling about this. He likes to think he’s not one of those fiercely overprotective older brothers, but this just reeks of things going wrong. Especially with this witch-impersonating-kidnapper around here, somewhere. “When did you last see him?”

“At Liesel’s funeral,” offers the old woman named Lebi. “He stayed to talk to Klaus.”

So, that was probably meant to be a clarification, but it sure as hell did not act like one. Ed has several questions now, all of which boil down to _Why did you leave my brother alone in a graveyard?_. “Okay. We’re going over there _right now_.”

The graveyard consists of a vast expanse of headstones, so many that Ed actually feels dizzy looking at them. Autumn leaves blanket everything in the color of low-burning embers, and the grass here is green but brittle. Most of the flowers left at the graves have withered without roots to support them, becoming paper-wrapped, crumbling brown bundles that look as though they wouldn’t survive a single touch. What it lacks, though, is a seven-foot suit of armor and a bratty tomboy.

A look anxiety crosses Lebi’s face as she scans the cemetery. “You don’t suppose they would have gone off alone, would they?”

“They would’ve stuck together,” Winry insists. She clutches at the strap of her duffle bag in a white-knuckled grip. “Right Ed?”

In the distance, the branches sway faintly, shedding a few dying-ember-colored leaves here and there. He thinks about the woman at the edge of the woods, white and auburn. His heart thumps loudly in her ears.

“Ed?”

“Stay here,” he commands, and takes a large step forward. “I’m going to check the woods.”

“What?” Her voice is pitchy with alarm. “Why?”

“Let’s just call it a big brother instinct,” is all he says on the matter. He’s already making for the treeline before she can inquire further.

* * *

As Al pushes his way through thick undergrowth and shoving aside branches that attempt to knock the helmet off his body, he comes to two realizations.

The first is that his body is far too bulky, and when this is all over, he’ll ask Brother to slim it down, or make it more compact, so it’s not so tall or broad-shouldered. Who was this armor even designed for in the first place, anyhow? There’s no way any man could fill something so impossibly colossal and imposing.

The second is that he’s immensely grateful for the fact that this body, despite its bulk, is constructed from unfeeling steel. With as many bramble bushes and low bearing branches as he’s walked into, it’s probably for the best that, in this case, he lacks delicate flesh that can be cut and bruised.

“Klaus!” He’s lost sight of her, at some point. The sun is starting to hang lower in the sky, and the canopy casts a fascinatingly dappled pattern of dark and light that makes her black suit vanish. “ _Klaus_!”

Why would she go _after_ the Witch? Why would she— Doesn’t she know how _dangerous_ —

Beyond a particularly thick part of the woods, a small grotto unfurls beyond the thicket. Lingering closer to the edge, the woman has her face turned away from Al’s view, concealed by a cascade of silken auburn hair. Klaus’s back is to him, and she’s standing directly across from her adversary, a sizeable enough distance away that he estimates would allow him to intervene, should the Witch attempt to lunge at Klaus with outstretched, spidery hands. Her hands are curling into white-knuckled fists, and though the oversized coat tries to disguise it, there’s tension wrought in every muscle of her back.

“So?” Klaus spits, harsh and violent. “You don’t have anything to say for yourself? _Huh_?”

Gingerly, the Witch shifts, taking a single step back. Her hair ripples, and for a moment, Al catches a flash of her face—it’s smooth, no shadows playing across the planes of her features as they should. Her expression is blank and she stares for too long with eyes that don’t blink.

“You took my _sister_ from me! And you don’t have anything to _say_?”

“Klaus...”

The voice is not Klaus’s, because it’s more velvety and strangely hushed, like the whisper of wind as it slides through the leaves—yet the Witch’s lips don’t move. Now that he looks at her more closely, her face looks almost _painted_ on, like a doll’s.

Klaus jerks back in alarm. Al takes that moment to emerge fully from the thicket.

His appearance causes the Witch to buck in alarm. Immediately, she whirls around and takes off running into the autumnal distance. He can’t help but notice that she doesn’t hesitate or falter when the branches lash her arms or her skirt or snag her hair. Small auburn wisps are left fluttering in her wake.

There’s no time to focus on that. He rushes over to Klaus’s side, taking in the way her lips are parted in surprise and the way her face has lost a few shades of color. A faint tremor has taken residence in her hands and there’s a glaze of shock in the wideness of her eyes. Whatever righteous anger was there before has given way to something stark and uncertain of itself—not quite horrified, her say, but it’s awfully similar.

“Klaus...?” Maybe she’s surprised that the Witch knew her name? That would freak Al out, if he were her. “Are you okay?”

She swallows thickly and gives a minute nod, but does not tear her gaze away from where the Witch once stood.

* * *

A word of advice to future generations—long fleece coats, badass as they are, do not mix well with pricker bushes.

Curses fall like rain from Ed’s lips, alternatively Amestrian and Xerxean, to the point where he can’t even tell the difference anymore. The hem of his coat is twisted badly around a particularly grabby branch with thorns the size of his thumb. His effort to untangle it, however, only results in his glove being snagged as well. If it were his right glove, his first instinct would be to abandon it, but unfortunately it’s his left glove, so if he leaves that, then he’s leaving himself open to cuts and scrapes across his palm.

...okay, it’s a minor inconvenience, but it’s the _principle_ of the matter, dammit.

 _I survived Truth’s Hall_ , he thinks, gritting his teeth and tugging hard. _I survived the Gate. I survived Yock Island and fucking automail surgery from Pinako Rockbell and her bloodthirsty granddaughter. I survived **Izumi fucking Curtis**! I’m not losing to a **damn bush**!_

In his effort to free himself, the _other_ glove gets caught.

“[Are you fucking _kidding_ me?!]” There must be something in the damned soil to make these thorns this damn _durable_. He sinks his fingers into the fleece cloth, takes a step back with one leg for balance, and then _yanks_.

With a deafening _rrrrrip_ -ing noise, Ed finds himself suddenly face-down on the forest floor. He coughs as he sits up, spitting a few offending leaves out of his mouth. A few more have to be shaken loose from his hair. There’s dirt on his tongue. It tastes awful. The universe has against him—he’s sure off it.

Scowling, he glances back at the bush. Scarlet shreds of fleece are left tangled in the branches, the color a sharp juxtaposition against the natural greenness of the leaves. Above that, the tattered remains of what was once his glove hangs limply, a thorn jutting out from the middle as though laying claim to it. His scowl transforms into a grimace as he examines the shredded hem of his coat on one side, like a wildcat decided to go fucking nuts on it. In short—it’s ruined. As is his remaining glove, which is torn down the back so that it hangs off his metal hand, ready to slip off as the slightest jerk.

“[Great.]” He tears what remains of his glove and throws it the ground as he stands. “[Al, when I find you],” he growls, turning back to his path, “[you _owe_ me a pair of fucking gl—]”

Wide brown eyes fill his vision.

There’s a scream that may or may not be his, cursing that is definitely his, and panic filling every fiber of his being. On knee-jerk instinct, he claps **(—the endless flow of energy, the potential to control it, it lies dormant in most but not for you—)** palms against palms and fingers against fingers. Before he can second-guess himself, his mind fills with equations **(COMPOSITION OF THE SOIL—MOISTURE CONTENT—HARDNESS—MOLAR MASS—REQUIRED TECTONIC ENERGY)** and he slams his hands against the ground.

**(TRANSMUTE)**

Energy _cracks_ through the air in massive blue-white electric arcs. To his amazement, the earth ripples outward and explodes into waves of blunt, jutting spires. There’s a resounding _crack_ as it slams into the woman, then a white-auburn tumble as she’s sent flying. Someone cries out as the woman disappears into the underbrush.

Ed blinks. Blinks again. Looks down at his hands. The ozone detritus of transmutation fills the air.

...holy _shit_.

Okay. Okay. One fucking thing at a time.

There’s no moans of pain or breathing or even a rustle of movement from the bushes. That is not a good sign. In fact, that is a distinctly _bad_ sign.

 _Please don’t tell me I killed her._  He rises back to his feet and jogs over to her, panic rising in his throat. These bushes, luckily, don’t have thorns and the branches yield easily as he pushes them aside. **_Please_** _tell me I didn’t kill her!_

Beyond the bushes is a spot where the trees thin somewhat, allowing golden light to flood the area and alight the leaf-laden forest floor in rich carnelian color. Sprawled out on her side, the skirt of the woman’s dress pools around her body in silken folds, practically glowing bright white beneath the sinking sun, marred by dirt and torn in places. Her auburn hair spills haphazardly in a tangled cascade, forming a loose arc that flows outward from her scalp, not unlike the curve of a cresting tidal wave. She looks like a fallen angel of some kind, broken but beautiful, her skin porcelain white and her face exquisitely gorgeous.

But the flaws there are more than just dirt tears in her dress and tangles in her hair. Dark, spiderweb cracks unfurl from her chin, spreading across her face until whatever loveliness was there is now marred by ruin. Her eyes are wide open, her mouth flat, her nose coming to a shallow point.

It’s almost... painted, in a way.

Tentatively, Ed shuffles closer. The light teases across her limbs, and he follows the length of her arm before stopping at her elbow—which is jointed. _Literally_ jointed, not unlike the joints of the doll he and Al once transmuted for Winry. There’s a physical ball-and-socket configuration that makes up her elbows, her wrists, her ankles and her knees. Even her fingers have tinier variations that might allow them to twitch. He can make out subtle lines along her neck and beneath her jaw that might, theoretically, permit movement of the head.

“What the hell...?” She’s more like a life-sized marionette than a person. He carefully lowers himself to his knees before her, close enough to see that her face really _is_ painted on. In fact, her skin looks so porcelain-like because it might _actually_ be porcelain. She still hasn’t moved, hasn’t twitched or stirred.

Something else catches his attention. With her hair swirled outwards and upwards, the back of her neck is exposed—as is the strange symbol carved into it.

He leans forward to get a better glimpse at it, but in that moment, the marionette stirs. Alarmed, he jerks back and stumbles backwards, far enough away that he can transmute again if he needs to, before she manages to reach him.

However, it doesn’t seem very likely that she’ll try to jump him, much less move from her spot. There’s a gracelessness with which she moves, jerking awkwardly, as though her body did not know how to react without strings attached to it. She (if it really _is_ a she) stumbles drunkenly to her feet—and then suddenly collapses against the ground again.

Again, she gets up, but barely manages to rise past propping one knee up before her body gives out. Her head drops, and the long stream of her auburn curls drapes her form. Again, he catches a glimpse of the mark on the back of her porcelain neck, though the angle is bad and he can’t properly make it out.

Cautiously, Ed sits back up, settling onto his haunches, unsure what to think.

Slowly, her head rises again. Only one eye is visible, with the way her hair falls. It’s stationary, with a crack splitting it down the middle of the cocoa-brown iris. There’s only hollow darkness inside the crack.

“H-Help...” At the sound of the voice, he nearly jumps out of his skin. There’s an overwhelming wretchedness to it, like a flower being crushed underfoot by careless feet, leaving only a mangled mess in its wake. “Help me...”

And the thing is—the voice sounds _young_ , too. Desperation clutches Ed’s chest. He gets to his feet, ready to walk over to her—

“Edward, get away from there!”

But a body suddenly inserts itself between him and the marionette. Ed barely has time to process the voice as Majhal’s or the light of the lantern before he hears glass shatter. And then there is fire, brilliant and burning, and the marionette is consumed in flame.

_No!_

A wretched, pain-filled shriek fills the air as the marionette seems to fall back into the fire, as though dragging her down into Hell. Horror floods Ed in a shock of ice-cold, juxtaposed by the hot acridity of smoke stinging his tongue. Distantly, he registers the sound of clanking and footsteps, then the abrupt halt of it, and a shout in a young girl’s voice. But all he can do is watch and watch as the flames consume her silk dress, her long auburn curls, licks at the porcelain of her artificial flesh.

The crack on her face widens and splits until the head itself collapses. More cracks (heat fractures) spread across her limbs and now-exposed torso. Abruptly, the screaming stops. Just— _stops_. No warning, and no explanation.

“Go!” Majhal is shouting. “We can’t stay here! Go, go, go!”

He doesn’t want to, but someone grabs his arm—he thinks it might be Al, because there’s clanking directly in front of him—and he doesn’t know who because he can’t tear his eyes off the marionette.

Then they plunge into the undergrowth and she disappears from view. Only then is there a deafening burst of sound and light and distant heat.

 _Thermal shock_ , Ed realizes numbly. _The pressure of the heated air inside the hollow vessel grew too intense. Just like when the windows blew out when we burned our house._

That didn’t explain the fucking screaming.

It sounded _human_.

Finally, they come to a halt. Al—and yes, it’s Al, his glorious little brother who is safe and sound, praise be to whatever force passes for god—releases him. Directly in front of him, Klaus is doubled over, hands on her knees and a glossy mane of icy-black hair spills over one shoulder. She must have lost her cap at one point, probably to a meddlesome branch or another. A little ways away from her, Majhal leans onehandedly against the nearest tree, gulping down lungfuls of air in attempt to steady his breathing.

The rush of blood in Ed’s ears is too loud. He can’t hear anything over it.

“What _was_ that?” Al asks. He doesn’t pant, because he doesn’t need to breathe, but that doesn’t stop his voice from tremoring in alarm. His soulfire eyes stare unreadably into the distance.

“Never mind that!” Majhal straightens abruptly, and his eyes spark with a dark sort of anger that takes Ed aback. With his face twisted into a scowl, the lines on his face grow deeper and darker. “What on _earth_ were you doing out here?”

Klaus jolts upright, eyes wide. With her hair down, she suddenly looks softer. Young and vulnerable. “I-I was just—”

“It’s _dangerous_ out here!” Sharply, Majhal turns to him and Al, and he immediately sees why Klaus looked so scared. The hairs on the back of Ed’s neck bristle at the intensity in the elder alchemist’s eyes. “And _you two_! What were _you_ doing?”

Al draws back timidly. “I-I was—”

“The walking tin can was with me!” Klaus interrupts, which causes Majhal’s gaze to swing back to her. She flinches back in alarm.

“...tin can?” Al repeats, more hurt than offended.

“And I”—Ed’s heart is still throbbing inside his throat—“came looking for them.”

For a moment, Majhal trembles. A sharp, instinctive fear curdles in the pit of Ed’s stomach, and he finds himself drawing back in anticipation for—what? What exactly is he _expecting_?

But then Majhal sighs, and the tension falls from his body. He turns back to them, the earlier wrath smoothed over by a reserved somberness. Ed’s hackles fall flat. “Let’s all just get out of here. Before something _else_ happens.”

* * *

It takes almost an hour before the trees rustle and silhouettes emerge from the woods. By then, the sun is starting to drip lower, to the point where the it’s this annoying ball of burning light that gets in your eyes no matter how much you squint. Long shadows are cast by the low-bearing sun, the gravestones bleeding dark stripes.

Winry’s chest thuds with a deafening sense of anxiety that only quiets when the silhouettes become people, and recognizable ones at that.

“Thank _God_ ,” she cries out, and immediately rushes over to Ed and Al. Ed’s coat is shredded on one end, and both his gloves have been abandoned, giving the world perfect access to the mismatched pairing of flesh and steel. There’s some nicks and tears in Al’s loincloth, too, and the feather in his hair has collected a couple leaves. But between the two of them, neither is seriously harmed, or has furrows in their bodies like the carvings in the bark she saw on the way here, so that, at least, is a victory. “You were gone for, like, two hours!”

“Sorry,” Al says numbly. He creaks, then falls abruptly still.

She looks first at him, at the vacancy in soulfire eyes that stare at nothing. Then she looks at Ed, who is right in front of him and blinking rapidly, like the world might evaporate into mist at any moment and he’s scared he’ll miss it. Glancing at Klaus, who Lebi is trying to draw a response from, Winry finds that the other girl is peering back at the trees with a despondent sort of unease. Her hair, loosing and ink-colored, shimmers as it spills past her shoulders.

In the distance, the trees rustle. A restless breeze goes past, and an instinctive shiver runs down Winry’s spine, despite the arid heat.

“Lebi.” Majhal’s voice is flat, but Lebi starts at the sound of it regardless. His face is turned away so that Winry can only see the back of his head. “Perhaps you should escort Klaus home.”

The woman’s brow furrows deeply with concern. “James? What happened?”

“Are you _deaf_ , woman?” Majhal snaps. The sharpness of it causes Lebi to flinch back and wince, inexplicably pained, but he hardly seems to pay her any mind. He doesn’t even deign to turn his face towards her. “Just _take the girl home_.”

Silence thickens around Klaus, and she curls her hands into tight, tremoring fists. Her eyes are wide and there’s something in them, some sense of betrayal or disbelief, that she aims at Majhal. But if he notices, he pays it no mind.

Chapped lips purse. Lebi places a weathered hand on the girl’s shoulder in a comforting gesture. “Come on, dear. Clary’s probably worried sick about you.”

Eyes still shimmering with disbelief, Klaus nods silently, dumbly, simply going through the motions. She doesn’t shrink from Lebi’s hand, doesn’t resist when she’s tugged away and guided out of the graveyard. Not once does Klaus look away from Majhal, craning her neck around over her shoulder just to pin him with her gaze. It’s almost an accusation, Winry finds.

Anxiety blooms in Winry’s stomach. Whatever happened in the woods, it didn’t stay in there. Whatever happened is enough to shake you, right down to your blood.

Once Klaus and Lebi are out of view, Majhal turns around slowly. The graveness in his eyes is very unsettling, the pitilessness of his expression even more so. There’s displeasure there, of course, but something else, too. Something... ominous, almost. A portentous flash of what might be anger, if anger were something that inspires a sense of nervous anticipation in you. It thrums inside her gut, and she isn’t sure why it’s there, but her hackles reflexively rise, her muscles instinctively tense. It’s just the way the light is falling, she reasons, that makes his expression so dark. Just the inconsequential play of light and shadow in the cervices of his face.

“You three.” There is nothing sharp about Majhal’s tone, but it seems to cut despite that. All of a sudden the air is heavy, pressing like the humidity before a storm breaks, hot and sticky and far too thick to breathe. “Come along. Before something _else_ happens.”

Her heart jumps at that, and her first thought isn’t that whatever is in the woods will come after her. It feels like the danger is already here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look! Actual stuff happening! Crazy!
> 
> But no, seriously, we're finally getting into the meat of this mini-arc. And hopefully improved upon the canon plot of that episode because it was _so freaking disjointed_ —
> 
> Ahem.
> 
> Anyway. As always, clarification is available to anyone who asks. Just drop a comment and if it's not too spoilery, I'll answer. (There might be some delay, though, because I have exams all this week—wish me luck!)
> 
> Sincerely,  
> The Immortal Moon


	14. The World Turned It Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can’t think of _any_ scenario where it would be ‘necessary’ to sacrifice human lives. Nothing in this world is worth that much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy (early) Valentine's Day! And what a wonderful way to celebrate.
> 
> Warning: Contains blood and semi-graphic depictions of violence. Nothing particularly explicit, but reader discretion is advised.

_“You bought a star in the sky tonight_  
_And in your man-made dark_  
_The light inside you died”_  
—Marina and the Diamonds, “Buy the Stars”

 

_~1891_

“So? What do you think?”

“Well, it’s a _fascinating_ theory, of course. A stroke of genius—but...”

“But?”

“But it’s impossible to confirm, and there isn’t really any sufficient data to support it. At best, it’s just the skeleton of a theory. A hypothesis. Er—no offense!”

“Well, that _is_ the whole point of testing. Gather data, build a structure, give it some substance. The scientific process calls for trial and error, of course. What we’d need to do is determine a way to test—”

“But. The testing would have to be on... _human_ subjects.”

“Correct.”

“...and that doesn’t bother you?”

“It doesn’t _not_ bother me, I’ll admit. However, the whole point of science is to advance and improve our understanding of the world. While I agree that it is a rather unsavory thought, this would allow for the advancement of alchemy, would change the way we live our lives. I think that’s worth a few... necessary sacrifices.”

“ _Necessary_ —”

“Oh, don’t go working yourself up into a tizzy. This is basic Equivalent Exchange, is it not? Something must be given in order to gain something of equivalent value.”

“Forgive me if I hesitate to equate _human lives_ with _scientific advancement_.”

“It’s fine for you to feel that way. You’re young, you’re passionate. But you’re also clever, brilliantly so. And when you’re older, and you’ve got a bit more experience to steady you, you’ll recognize the value of sacrifice.”

“That’s... that’s not...”

“If you’re going to be a proper alchemist, you need to be ready to sacrifice and compromise, because the world is _not_ going to compromise for you. You must be prepared to do what is necessary to achieve your goals, no matter what it may be. Do you understand?”

“...”

“Well?”

“...disagree.”

“Did you say something?”

“...I said, I understand fine, but I think we’ll just have to disagree.”

“Oh?”

“I can’t think of _any_ scenario where it would be ‘necessary’ to sacrifice human lives. Nothing in this world is worth that much.”

“...hm.”

“What?”

“It must be nice, to be so idealistic.”

“...”

* * *

_~1911_

The scream keeps echoing through Al’s mind in an endless, incessant loop played on a permanent repeat. It seems to reverberate throughout the hollow expanse of his metal body, seems to resonate with his steel-bound soul. Something about it struck him, deeply and thoroughly. It’s hard to explain.

“Al!”

At the sound of Brother’s voice, Al snaps back to reality. He finds, to his bemusement, that they’ve somehow made it back to Mr. Majhal’s living room without him noticing. The sun droops low and casts deep, slanting shadows over everything, adding a touch of something unsettling to the room. Thin, insubstantial curtains are pulled over the window in an attempt to soften the harshness of the light, but instead the shifting patterns of the fabric instead seem to breathe life into the shadows. The constant twitch and flutter of movement across the wood surface makes Al’s hollow insides itch with apprehension—what a strange dissonance there is, between feeling an emotion but not the physical affects of it.

Sitting down at the table, Winry clutches her workbag to her chest like a child would their favorite pet in search of comfort. Her cap has been discarded, so her long ponytail is free to spill past her shoulders. A few books that Al only just then notices have been shoved over to one side, hastily stacked but not aligned. Brother eyes Al carefully as he walks around him, holding out a glass of water that looks like it came from the tap for Winry to take. The flash of metal catches Al’s eye, and he suddenly realizes that Brother’s gloves have vanished at some point, leaving both hands, flesh and steel, bare for the world to see. Mr. Majhal is conspicuously absent.

Several moments pass and Winry makes no move to take the glass. Brother sets it down with a soft clink, and his eyes remain on Al the whole time. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Al gives his helmet a little shake to clear his mind. It doesn’t do any good, but it somehow makes it easier to organize his thoughts. “Sorry. I was just kinda... thinking.”

“No kidding.” Very slowly, to the point where Al can physically see the movement of Brother’s automail arm beneath the folds of his fleece coat, Brother slides into the chair next to Winry. “You’ve been spaced out for the last ten minutes!”

Had he? Al ducks his head sheepishly. “Sorry.”

Finally seeming to notice the glass of water in front of her, Winry tentatively loosens her grip on her workbag and closes one hand around it. She doesn’t drink from it, just holds it, grip tight, seeking comfort in the fact that it doesn’t bend or yield beneath her fingers. Her eyes are focuses on it intently. “Can you tell me what happened now?”

Briefly, her gaze flashes up the hall before it settles back onto him.

Karin’s form invades Al’s thoughts again, the gracelessness with which she’d burned, practically falling into the fire as though her knees had simply given out. He remembers how the light had played across the lines of Mr. Majhal’s face, flickering amber and deep, ominous shadows pooling in the crevices of his wrinkle-ravaged face. The way Brother looked at him after, defiant and furious and dismayed beyond all words, said everything Al needed to hear without words.

The rational (naive) part of him is trying to argue that this isn’t a black mark on Mr. Majhal’s part. To anyone who saw the image of a deceased person, it would be understandable to jump to the worst conclusion and react in appropriate terror. As far as he was concerned, he probably thought he was saving them from something dangerous and terrifying, the Witch responsible for kidnapping all those girls over the last couple decades and depositing their empty shells in the morning. But still, Al has trouble reconciling this knowledge with the phantasmal figure from the woods, the creature that spoke with unmoving lips and a tender voice.

And screamed loudly and pained, as a human might.

In the hallway, the incessant draft gives a distant whistle. It sounds like Karin’s voice, her velvet whisper.

“When Klaus and I were in the cemetery, we saw her. Karin.” Winry’s expression flashes to one of alarm, and Brother’s changes to a knowing apprehension. Al looks away, because it’s easier to focus on the blank, unassuming wall than their collective concern for him. “Klaus was still upset about her sister and everything, so... she went after her.”

That causes worry to flash across Brother’s face, bright and sharp. His metal hand presses flat against the table, so the shift of the curtains’ shadows ripples over the steel. “So you _followed_ her?”

“I wanted to make sure nothing happened!” Honestly, Brother is being quite the hypocrite. They both know he would have done the same thing, in Al’s position.

Evidently, this seems to occur to Ed, because he massages his temple with a soft groan. Absently, Al notices he uses his flesh hand. Winry takes a brief sip from the glass of water and sets it back down with a sharp clink.

“We cornered her in a grotto.” Karin’s image burns in Al’s mind’s eye. Her flowing gown, white like a phantom, torn around the edges from running through the woods and streaked with dirt that added a sense of imperfection to her loveliness. “But she didn’t attack. She just... stood there. Like she wanted run, but... but she couldn’t will herself to do it.”

Something creaks in the distance. It’s probably just the house settling or something. It’s not totally ominous. The sun is still out, so it can’t be ominous.

Brother glances at the hall with badly-concealed anxiety. Al wonders what he’s searching for.

“I think she was scared,” Al admits suddenly. Even as he says it, he knows how crazy it sounds. This is the thing supposedly responsible for twenty years worth of killings. It’s the thing that killed Liesel Danforth. He shouldn’t be so sympathetic to something like that.

There’s something worried in the way Winry looks at him. Brother’s uneasy gaze is pointed at the window and the fluttering drapes.

“After I went into the woods looking for you,” Brother says quietly, much to Al’s surprise, “I came face-to-face with her. I got a damn good look—she didn’t look like a ghost, Al. She looked like a giant marionette.”

“Really?” Winry asks softly. Her eyes are wide and shimmering, but there’s not so much fear there as there is anticipation.

Giving a minute nod, Brother glances cautiously at the hall again. Deeming it safe, his gaze drops to his hands. “Her joints reminded me of a doll’s. Like a puppet but without strings, I guess. I think she was made of porcelain or something. Her face was painted on.”

“She spoke without moving her mouth,” Al adds. And her face had been arranged into a permanently blank expression, as though emotion were a forbidden thing, were reserved for beings so far beyond her that she couldn’t be afforded it. “She didn’t sound scary, or threatening, or anything.”

Brother studies his hands intently, as though he’s only just noticed the artistry of them, the complexity of tendons and bone and muscle counterpointed with the intricacy of steel and wires. “She asked me for help.”

 _That_ gives Al pause. He looks at his brother in alarm, but Ed’s face doesn’t give anything away. Winry takes a long, slow sip of water, eyes sparkling concernedly.

“There was something on the back of her neck,” says Brother finally. Determination flashes across his face and he jumps out of his seat. His long fleece coat acts something like a cape of some kind. “I didn’t get a good look at it, admittedly. But there was something _weird_ about her.”

“Klaus acted kind of funny after she spoke,” Al remembers. She’d been trembling uncharacteristically, her face blanched with something that was neither disbelief or horror but somehow both at once. At the sound of screaming, she jolted like she’d been zapped by static electricity and then immediately broken out in a run—and that was how they stumbled across Karin’s burning form.

Frowning, Brother paces back and forth, coat fluttering scarlet. There’s a telltale unevenness in his steps. “Something’s going on. How would Mahjal know that fire would work against her?”

“Maybe he didn’t,” Winry offers, but her voice is feeble. “Maybe he just... reacted?”

“He _brought_ a lantern, though.” Brother frowns and shakes his head. “Why would he do that? It wasn’t even that dark!”

“Maybe he expected to be out late?” But her heart doesn’t sound in it, and she averts her gaze, chewing her lip.

The scream pierces through Al’s memory again. He looks down at the table, at the shift and whisper of the curtains moving. Is there even a breeze? There must be, for them to sway like this. Still air doesn’t provoke movement.

“Al?”

He looks up again. Brother has paused pacing for a moment to eye him in concern, and Winry has half-emptied her glass of water.

“Her scream,” he murmurs. It still rings, fresh and clear. “It was the same one as last night.”

In unison, their eyes widen. The shock on Brother’s face, though, is quickly replaced by something burning and urgent. “Are you _sure_?”

Silently, Al nods.

Abruptly, Brother turns away and starts running his flesh hand through his hair. With the way his coat covers him and hides his automail limbs, Al can almost pretend they’re not there, that all of Ed’s limbs are flesh and blood. “And you said Klaus acted kind of weird after she talked?”

“...yeah. But it was probably because Karin knew her name—”

“Knew her _name_?” Winry interrupts, alarmed.

“We need to talk to her,” Brother announces.

Before anyone can say anything else, the creak of hinges sounds, and a shudder seems to go through the air. Al turns just in time to see Mr. Majhal’s form emerges from the hallway. There’s windows in the hallway, and the lights aren’t on, so the shadows cast an almost oppressive curtain over everything in it. With the way the darkness plays across the angles of his face, it adds an undercurrent of something that makes the innocuous curiosity on his face significantly less sincere.

Sharp eyes take in their agitation, the tension in the air and in their muscles, and then an amiable smile twitches across the elder alchemist’s face. “Oh? What’s all the excitement about?”

If only Al had a physical heart, he would be able to feel the thump of its pulse prominently against his throat. For some reason, he thinks back to last night, when Mr. Majhal plucked his helmet off and stared at it in wild fascination. It had unnerved him then, and it still unnerves him now, made him wary of his father’s former acquaintance. And now with this whole debacle, with the way he’d watched Karin burn, the firelight playing across the cold displeasure that briefly pervaded his expression... Al suddenly wants to be as far away from him as possible. It seems that he isn’t the only one who’s grown wary or uneasy in Mr. Majhal’s presence—Brother’s eyes smolder with something dark and flickering. Winry slowly slides her bag off her lap, a shadow crossing her face.

“We were just thinking about going to see Klaus,” Winry says shakily. Her bag hits the floor with a muted thump. “To see how she’s doing.”

“Is that right?” Mr. Majhal steps a little closer, wearing an expression of pleasant bemusement. Suddenly, Al remembers when the elder alchemist was watching Karin burn, how there had been something cold and displeased about his expression. “I was actually hoping to talk to you about something, Edward.”

Bewilderment flashes across Brother’s face, but he’s quick to temper it. “Can it wait?”

“I’m afraid it’s actually quite urgent.”

Something darkly suspicious sparks in Brother’s eyes as he nods his assent. “You guys go on ahead,” he says to them without looking away. “I’ll catch up to you in a sec.”

“Don’t stay out too long,” Mr. Majhal says pleasantly. “The Requiem Festival will start in a few hours.”

* * *

Winry has never been more grateful to get the hell out that house. Even the long sleeves of her borrowed jacket can’t ward off the goosebumps that climbed up her arms beneath Majhal’s gaze and the minute she steps outside, relief sweeps through her.

She doesn’t want to think badly of anyone. She doesn’t. But there’s something going _on_ here. Her instincts have been needling her since yesterday, since Majhal swept Al’s helmet up without any regard for his humanity and treated the whole thing like an elaborate research opportunity. And now there’s this—this eerie sensation that clings to her, wraps itself around her, its touch light and ethereal... she hopes Ed gets out of there soon.

Belatedly, she realizes she’s forgotten to tuck her hair away. Whoops.

Ironically enough, they run into Klaus about halfway to her family’s apiary. Her hair has been tucked back into a boyish cap, and she’s exchanged her oversized suit for her earlier combination of a collared shirt and khaki slacks. She looks surprised to see them, but at the same time almost hesitant, wary.

“What’re you guys doing here?” she demands, but the anger seems forced, almost. Her eyes keep darting distractedly past Winry’s shoulder.

“We wanted to see if you were okay.” The waning sunlight glitters off Al’s metal body, golden and harsh. If you look at it the wrong way, it flashes blindingly, fills your vision with brilliant white. “You were kind of shaken up...”

“Well, _yeah_.” Klaus huffs and crosses her arms, but the action doesn’t strike Winry as moody so much as insecure. She almost seems to be hugging herself in an attempt to cover her own vulnerability. “I mean, I was _attacked_ by a _dead lady_.”

For a moment, Winry watches her. The twitchiness of her shoulders, the way she shifts her arms like she can’t keep still. People don’t just twitch like that unless there’s something inside them trying to gnaw its way out. “Al said she knew your name.”

“Y-Yeah.” Her face twists briefly with unease, but she is quick to cover it with a sharp jerk of her chin. It’s all false bravado, Winry realizes. Every little bit of it. “Talk about creepy! Who _wouldn’t_ be freaked out by that?”

That’s a very good point. So why does Winry get the sensation that she’s hiding something? “Why are you out here?”

“What? I’m not allowed to take a damn walk?”

“N-No!” She mentally adds _defensiveness_ to the list of odd things about Klaus’s general demeanor. “I meant, why aren’t you at home? Y’know. With your parents?”

Klaus continues to eye her for a moment, then forces her shoulders to relax. Still, she is reluctant to make eye contact. “I wanna talk to Majhal. Wanna thank him and all.”

From the way she says that, urgent and sharp, it’s clear that this isn’t a leisurely visit. Winry wonders if there’s more to it, but she finds herself reluctant to pry. “Okay.”

“Yeah. Great. Bye.” She attempts to shove her way past them, shoulders hunched and pointed.

“Klaus!” Al calls. She hasn’t made it very far before she whirls around, her eyes flinty with annoyance and the exasperated _what?_ all but written across her face. He shrinks back a little at the intensity of her gaze. “Um... W-Who’s Clary, by the way?”

She blinks. “What?”

“Lebi mentioned someone named Clary.” Come to think of it, she had. Winry had completely forgotten about that. “I haven’t heard the name before, so I was just curious. T-That’s all.”

That was never the intent of this conversation. Winry chalks the question up to Al losing his nerve, or suffering a sudden intervention of sympathy at the last second. Which, really, she can understand.

What she doesn’t understand is why Klaus’s brows furrow dubiously. “...my dad’s name is Clarence. But no one’s called him ‘Clary’ since he was little.”

Al looks befuddled at that, a sentiment Winry sympathizes with. “Really?”

“Yeah. Like, twenty years ago.” Klaus’s frown deepens. “Lebi’s never met my dad. How would she—oh, Liesel must have told her.”

Absently, Winry nods, but thoughts buzz inside her skull. Why would Liesel mention her father by name? Winry never mentions her father by name, and definitely not by a childhood nickname.

Come to think of it... when she was spending the day in Lebi’s shop, she mentioned a few passing things about the townsfolk—how the teacher at the schoolhouse used to be engaged to one person but married another, how this one couple used to hate each other as children before they grew up and married. Little things, gossip and such that she hadn’t thought much of at the time. But as she reflects on it, she realizes that most of that information was old. Very old. Old in a way that a recent newcomer really shouldn’t be privy to.

“How exactly did Karin die again?” Winry asks suddenly. She thinks Klaus might have mentioned it before, but she can’t remember.

“She fell off a cliff,” Klaus answers, a touch suspicious. “She was delivering a bunch of her witch-roses in a carriage, and the path gave way.”

Roses? Yeah, Karin had a thing for roses.

(Like the roses that Lebi displayed so openly, despite the townsfolks’ wariness of them and their ominous connection with the so-called Witch.)

“...and they never found her body, right?”

With a snort, Klaus plants her hands on her hips. “I already told you this.”

“Winry?” Al casts her a confused look.

“Klaus, do you know where, _exactly_ , she fell?”

“Uh...” Klaus wracks her brain for a moment, brows furrowing in thought. “I think it was near—”

“Lilyridge?”

This time, when Klaus blinks, there’s something slightly unnerved in her expression. “...yeah. How did you...?”

A dizzy, heady sensation fills Winry. This must be the rush Ed and Al feel from having solved an equation that initially seemed so impossible. She starts forward, destination blazing in her mind. “Al, we need to go to Lebi’s shop _right now_.”

“What?”

Whirling back around, she stomps back over to him and snares his vambrace in her hand. He’s heavy, sure, because his body is solid steel, but Winry has spent her life working with heavy machinery and really, this is nothing she isn’t used to. “Come _on_.”

“Wait a second!” Al starts protesting, but he ultimately yields to her tugging. She’s stronger than she looks, after all.

A thought suddenly occurs to Winry as she remembers Majhal’s sad eyes and wistful expression from this morning. It was the only time he hadn’t unnerved her. She glances over her shoulder at Klaus, who continues to stand in the same spot, blinking dumbly. “Hey, Klaus! When you’re done talking to Mr. Majhal, can you send him to Lebi’s shop?”

“U-Uh—I guess?”

“Great!” If she’s right about this—and she probably is, because gearhead or not, she’s damn smart—then they can finally get to the _bottom_ of this whole debacle.

* * *

As Majhal leads Ed down the hallway, his form cutting darkly against the dimming light within the house, the air thickens with anticipation. Ed’s pulse thrums and perspiration starts to gather on his flesh hand, though he doesn’t think it’s from nerves. The sensation jangling in his gut is more sickly, sinister and solid, like a stone settling at the bottom of a pool.

The marionette’s pleading voice returns to him, and he has a sudden recollection of her drawing back minutely. He remembers her scream, raw and aching and far too human. He remembers Klaus’s description of her sister’s death—face contorted mid-scream.

All the pieces connect to Karin. It starts with her death twenty years ago, then rumors of her supposed status as a witch. The roses, of course, were alchemy’s doing, but most people looked at alchemy and saw the simple, mundane task of repairing what is broken. They didn’t understand the complexity, the delicacy with which it could be wielded. But that wasn’t the point. Karin and her untimely death seemed to be the source of all this, yet the image he confronted in the woods was a marionette, likely built in her image. Were there more of them? Were they the ones responsible? Was someone controlling them, and that one had escaped from some demented captor?

And how did they move? That’s what Ed would like to know...

_The symbol on the back of her neck..._

(it couldn’t be)

“So what did you want to ask me?” Ed asks. The silence is stale and heavy and he’s frankly tired of it already.

All Majhal offers is an enigmatic smile as he stops before a wooden door. The floorboards squeak in this particular spot, for some reason or another. The handle is turned, and he steps inside. Hesitantly, Ed follows.

What lays beyond is a rather modest-sized library. It’s smaller than the bookstore back in Risembool, where Dad used to take them every Wednesday to peruse the new stock, but it has the same smell to it—the fragrance of old paper coupled with the mustiness of treated leather and the subtle sharpness of ink. Sunlight slants in from the nearby window, which ignites the whole room golden-bright. A lethargic dance holds the dust motes within the sunbeams captive, and there’s a cross pattern that stretches across the ground, dividing it into four equal sections. Bookshelves line the walls, laden with spines organized by color, navy blue beneath maroon beneath pine green beneath dark brown. Bookends mark each row, burnished metal and stylized into the shape of curling roses, petals blooming wide but their winding stems conspicuously smooth, without thorns that jut out to poke and annoy. In one corner, a cedarwood credenza collects a profuse blanket of dust, atop which sits a pair of old, decorative oil lamp that look at least a century old. Their handles are long and intricately gilded, swirls adorning their antique length, with a vertical-stretching glass flute that curves outwards before narrowing at the end, not unlike an unbloomed rosebud.

“This is my library,” Majhal says, stating the obvious. “This is where those books I gave you came from.”

“Uh. Yeah. I got that.” Ed can even see the spaces where the books were probably pulled from. He finds he eye drawn to the bookends again. Their beautiful intricacy is identical with one another, like someone mass-produced them in a factory. There’s an inscription at the base, he notices, written in Xerxean script.

 _Α_ _ἰ_ _ωνιότης_ , it reads.

 _Aiōniótēs_ , Ed thinks, frowning. _Eternity._

“That’s right.” Like a shadow, Majhal drifts over to the credenza. Warily, Ed trails after him, but is careful to maintain a cautious distance. “I’ve given you information. By the Law of Equivalent Exchange, you owe me some information, don’t you?”

Unease coils in the pit of Ed’s stomach, like a sleeping beast twitching as it starts to wake. “What... kind of information?”

Majhal’s back is still to him, form highlighted darkly against the golden rays of the setting sun. Distantly, Ed notices that the sky is growing fire-gold, already undergoing the metamorphosis from daylight to twilight. “How about we start with your ability to transmute without a circle?”

Ed’s stomach grows cold and _drops_ to his feet with a resounding but metaphorical crash. His mouth grows dry. “W-What are you—”

“Don’t pretend not to understand, Edward.” Majhal shifts minutely, so that Ed can make out a single eye beneath the spill of his ragged, oily hair. Something dark and pointed glitters inside it. “It’s beneath you.”

“I—”

“Furthermore, I saw you in the woods.” A rush of cold goes through Ed at that, and Majhal’s single eye grows piercing. “I never saw you draw a circle. Your gloves were torn, so it wasn’t a tattoo. And the light came from your _hands_ , Edward—not a circle drawn on your arm or hidden under your coat. You _clapped_ , and then transmuted. No circle required.”

In the back of his mind, the Gate whispers, low and sonorous. Ed shakes his head to quiet it. “I-I didn’t—”

“Did your father teach you how to do that?” There’s something sharp and accusing in the way Majhal demands this. It borders on resentful.

“What?” The suggestion is so preposterous that Ed actually has to take a moment to fully process it. “No! Of course not!”

Clearly, this is not what Majhal wants to hear. He turns a little more towards Ed, his single visible eye narrowing a touch. Shadows play across his face, deepening the furrows of his face. It becomes almost ominous. “Then where? That’s not a technique you pick up out of the blue.”

Unfortunately, Majhal is not wrong about that, but like hell is Ed going to tell him about the Gate. He hasn’t even worked up the courage to discuss it with _Al_. “I—”

“Is that how you transmuted your brother’s soul?” Majhal demands sharply, and Ed jolts back.

“Wha— _no_ , I—”

“I know it was you.” Majhal turns to face him fully. His hair drapes the side of his face like motheaten curtains, his fringe casting ominous shadows over his forehead. Instinctively, Ed takes a step back. “Don’t deny it!”

He becomes acutely aware of his automail leg and its iron weight. Fleetingly, he wonders if it would slow him down. “N-No, I—”

“How did you do it?” And suddenly, Majhal is advancing. There’s something pointed and predatory in his gaze. “My seals have never lasted more than two weeks, at best. What makes _yours_ so different?”

Between the budding sense of anxiety and the dark, scathing tone Majhal uses, it takes Ed a moment to grasp the implications. When it clicks, his blood runs cold. “Y-You—”

The symbol on the back of the marionette’s neck. It _couldn’t_ be.

He’d seen the marionette outside of Majhal’s house. Not too long afterwards, Majhal disappears, taking a lantern he really wouldn’t need.

_“I might be gone for a while,” the elder alchemist explains, more than a touch frazzled._

If what Al says is true, then her scream was the same one he and Winry heard last night. And Winry said it came from behind the house.

_“Can I ask about that, uh, building? Behind the house?”_

_“You mean my laboratory.”_

The way the girls died. The way Liesel Danforth died. No wounds or visible blood or even bruises that would indicate a natural death.

_“It was a couple days ago when we finally found her body. Her eyes were open, a-and she looked like she died s-screaming. She l-looked like she had the l-l- **life** sucked out of her.”_

And it all started twenty years ago. Specifically, it all started when Karin died.

_Something sad and sympathetic emerges Winry’s face, then. She sets her fork down. “You were in love with her.”_

_“...using the past tense might be a bit arrogant of me.” The smile becomes a little sharper, like a crushed glass._

Ed’s eyes widen. “Holy _shit_.”

All of a sudden, pain explodes through Ed’s temple. The next thing he knows, his skull is _clacking_ against the shelf of the bookcase, and there’s a firm hand pinning his flesh arm behind his back. His other arm is pinned between his body and the bookcase. A hand grips the back of his hair, tight to the point of pain, and presses his head against the nearest shelf.

His peripheral vision fills with the nearest bookend. Roses, curling and vibrant and oh-so-beautiful. The Xerxean inscription on the base seems to scream at him.

 _Α_ _ἰ_ _ωνιότης._ _Eternity._

“You,” Majhal hisses, breath hot against Ed’s ear, “are going to _tell_ me how to create a perfect soul-bind.”

“It was _you_ ,” Ed spits. Majhal yanks his hair and bangs his head against the shelf again. His vision dances precariously close to darkness—somehow, he manages to make out the glint of metal at Majhal’s wrist. “This whole fucking _time_ —”

Pressure builds against his skull as Majhal presses hard. When Ed peers up at him, he sees that Majhal’s eyes are wide and dizzyingly wild. “You can end this all _very_ easily, Edward. If you tell me, I won’t have to keep experimenting—and no one else has to die!”

There’s a distant creak. Overgrown nails sink into the tender flesh of Ed’s scalp. He attempts to glance over his shoulder and is rewarded with a fleeting glimpse of wide teal eyes.

“I...” Klaus’s voice trembles. His vision is striped by his bangs, but he hears her take a step back, the weight of her foot causing another floorboard to creak. “J-Just... wanted to say thanks...”

“Run Klaus!”

The fresh pain that blares through Ed’s skull is so intense that his teeth clack. A loud clang rings out as his knee hits the hardwood floor. Beneath the dark-light flash of his vision, he hears Klaus cry out—and then abruptly fall silent.

 _Shit!_ His stumbles to his feet, but he must get up too fast, because the world is suddenly tottering on its axis and a wave of nausea crashes over him. He ends up crashing into the bookcase again, reaching out to grip the shelf for balance—but whatever he grabs isn’t a shelf, because it comes loose and then he’s on the ground again.

A sudden hand snatches him by the shoulder of his coat, and then something solid and heavy slams into his temple. His skull crashes against the floor again. His vision turns completely white.

“So troublesome,” Majhal says distastefully from above, and then darkness.

* * *

Silence resounds through the parlor in the back of Lebi’s flower shop. It presses against the walls—unpatterned, wallpaper faded, a dingy shade of pastel blue that was probably vibrant once. The furniture has a sense of aging to it, the wood drooping behind the fragile blanket of rose-petal pink cloth that has been stretches across their frames. Al sinks into the couch and his weight if probably causing more damage, just pressing into it with his enormous armored body. Winry balances on the cushion next to him, weightless in comparison to the way he sinks so deeply, with a steaming teacup in her hand and one leg crossed over the other. Over a window on the far wall, the flower-patterned drapes—which are perhaps the newest thing in the room—whisper under the influence of a draft that probably comes from the empty fireplace in the corner, its insides empty and blackened from soot. It looks like it needs to be scrubbed out.

With deliberate slowness, Lebi reaches forward and takes the teapot in one hand. Across its white porcelain surface, a filigree of lilac-petaled roses curls, green vines and delicate thorns. The tea that pours from its spout is a creamy-brown color and billows with steam as it fills her empty cup. “That’s everything,” she says finally, as she sets the teapot back down again. “You were right.”

Winry leans back into the couch. On the back wall, directly behind her, sits a cuckoo clock—a simply wooden construction with nothing particularly remarkable about it, save for the inscription of “love planted a rose, and the world turned sweet” written across the base. If the couch were pressed directly against the back wall, then the pendulums dripping from the wooden box would fall directly into Winry’s face. “...I was right.”

“I don’t think that’s the point here,” Al says tentatively. But the implications are certainly bewildering. This means that everything they knew before is wrong. None of this makes sense anymore.

“I was right!” Winry cries out excitedly, then jerks upright. She’s lucky her cup is empty, otherwise it would have spilled all over her. “Ha! You and Ed aren’t the only smart ones around here!”

If Al had physical eyelids, he would have blinked in surprise. “...I didn’t know that bothered you.”

“Only sometimes,” is her dismissive reply, too caught in the throes of her excitement to properly address the issue. Grinning from ear-to-ear, she sets her teacup down on the coffee table. “You realize what this means, don’t you, Al?”

He catches Lebi glancing up at him beneath the fringe of her auburn curls as she scoops sugar cubes into her drink. “Uh... we have no idea what’s responsible for the death of Liesel and the other girls over the last twenty years?”

“Exactly!” The brightness of her expression clashes horribly with her dark attire. “It means Karin is innocent!”

“I doubt the people of this town will believe that,” Lebi says sadly. She dribbles milk into her tea. The liquid lightens and thickens at the addition, pale color swirling on the surface of the creamy brown tea.

Determination flares across Winry’s face. Brother, Al muses, would be proud to see such an expression grace her features. “We’ll have to find evidence, then, and clear her name!”

“But we’re back at square one,” he reminds her.

“Not entirely.” The tick-tock of the cuckoo clock from behind seems to fill the room with its incessant rhythm. Winry’s eyes glitter sapphire-bright. “Now we just need to figure out who would want to frame Karin.”

At this, Lebi pauses, her teacup half-raised to her lips. There’s a sharp clink as she sets it back down in the saucer, eyes wide. “ _Frame_? Why would anyone—”

“It could have just been convenience,” Al intervenes, before she can get the wrong idea. He doubts anyone would have gone out of their way to harm Karin out of spite or hatred or anything else so dreadful. It could just be an enormous coincidence, that the killings started after the died—apparently in the same month, because October was apparently the time she vanished.

But Winry sends him a dubious look, and he can see there that she’s running through the logic of it herself. If it were just random killings, that might make sense. But then why fuel the rumors and go so far as to carve into the trees outside of town? And who, then, is responsible for the marionette he and Klaus and Brother encountered in the woods, a perfect likeness of Karin’s young, thirty-year-old self?

Unease suffuses across Lebi’s face and she peers down at her tea. The steam rises up in a slow spiral of phantom white, caressing the silvering of her hair. “...maybe James could help.”

It takes a moment for Al remember that “James” is Mr. Majhal’s first name. Once Winry connects the dots, she nods enthusiastically. “That’s exactly why I had Klaus tell him to come down here. He’d definitely want to see you again, after all this time!”

 _Wasn’t that hours ago, though?_ whispers a treacherous voice in the back of Al’s mind. He glances nervously at the window, where blackness presses against the glass like ink flooding out from the sky. When they’d arrived here and confronted Lebi over what they (read: Winry) had discovered, the horizon was blazing with life and autumnal fire, the last crowning moments of daylight going out in a blaze of glory. But now the day has died, indigo and crystal in its death, with the first few stars starting to poke their heads out, like white maggots starting to swarm a corpse. _Brother, too, should have come looking for us by now..._

The unease that lines Lebi’s shoulders only seems to build beneath her skin. She winces heavily, trying to cover it with a long sip of tea. “Isn’t there a way... where he doesn’t have to know?”

Surprised, Al peers up at her. “Why?”

“He’d be... disappointed,” Lebi murmurs into her tea. “If he saw me now.”

“No he wouldn’t!” Winry protests, but even as she says that, Al thinks about how dismissive Mr. Majhal was in the graveyard earlier, or how he gave away the honey cake she made him.

Lebi finishes her tea and then sets it down on the coffee table. The way the cup faces, Al can perfectly see the delicacy of the rose that is rendered upon it. “People only appreciate flowers when they are vibrant and blooming and they smell lovely. When they wither, dear, you’re supposed to throw them out.”

“People aren’t flowers,” Winry retorts firmly, setting down her teacup and saucer with a very pointed clink of porcelain. The curtains whisper with another breeze. “He won’t care about that!”

Another wince passes across Lebi’s face. “...I want to believe that. I do. But he’s... _changed_ , somehow.”

Without warning, the clock chimes, strikingly sharp and resoundingly sweet. The little wooden doors burst open, allowing a golden-yellow cuckoo bird—masterfully crafted and lovely in its simplicity—to poke out its little head. Eight times, the doors open and shut in time with the chiming. Al watches the pendulum swing, slow and steadily deliberate. There is something portentous in the truncated black line of the hour hand, hovering below the Xerxean numerals.

Winry is the first to recover, frowning and placing her hands flat on her knees to keep herself from fiddling with them. Al catches her eye and he notices the first glimmer of concern gathering there. “It can’t be _that_ late!”

“Brother should have been here by now,” Al murmurs. The idea of Ed lingering in Mr. Majhal’s house, suffering beneath the raking intensity of those hooded grey eyes, sends a shudder of unease down his metaphorical spine. It’s been hours. They couldn’t have been talking that long, could they? “And Klaus.”

A worried furrow emerges in Winry’s brow. She eases herself up to her feet, one hand grasping the other and squeezing anxiously at her fingers. “It probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to go over there and check it out.”

Before she even finishes her sentence, Winry is casting Lebi an entreating look. Sensing the attention on her, the older woman seems to shrink beneath the weight of Winry’s gaze, one weathered hand clutching the edge of her shall as though for comfort. The reluctance on her face transitions into something thoughtful, before her shoulders finally droop with resignation.

“Oh, al _right_.” With a slowness that can only be afforded by someone with aching joints, she rises to her feet. “Only because you’re so persuasive, young lady.”

* * *

The darkness beneath Ed’s eyelids throbs inside his skull like a demon’s heartbeat. An infernal pain is quick to settle in as his consciousness focuses, and a groan breaks inside his throat.

When he cracks an eye open, Karin’s face greets him.

He jerks back in alarm, though it transitions into consternation as his surroundings become clearer. Illuminated by a single bulb that hangs precariously from a patchwork ceiling, dozens of faces identical to the marionette’s glow palely in the half-light. Their bodies are bare, allowing him access to every line and joint of their puppet torsos and porcelain limbs. They line a series of shelves on the rightmost wall, heads dropping limply, artificial auburn hair dripping past their shoulders. Every last one of them has their faces painted with the utmost care.

More of the room unfolds before him. In the back wall, a closet is filled to the brim with dresses identical to the marionette from the woods’, silken and ghostly white. Left of Ed, a desk has been rammed up against the wall, and it is littered with a haphazard chaos of papers and pencils and pens, inkwells that have been left open, and tools that he is not particularly familiar with. They look as though they belong to an artist or a stone mason, not the sort of mechanical power tools he’s grown acquainted with since the instillation of his automail. Pieces of chalk litter the ground, some of them long and new, others so small they exist as mere nubs waiting to be crushed underfoot. The left wall is blanketed by charts and alchemic formulas, ink-dark against the yellowed paper. Through the gloom, he can make out the sigils and the glyphs, the circles made of rambling delusion and febrile mysticism. There’s a similar array in chalk drawn across the floor in sweeping chalk-white curves.

It sits beneath two chairs, tied back to back. In one, a Karin doll slumps forwards lifelessly, painted face concealed by a cascade of plastic-fibre curls. In the other, Klaus’s unconscious form is secured by a thick swaddling of rope. Her cap is gone, and her icy black locks spilling over one shoulder.

His pulse quickens and remembrance bleeds into his aching skull. Majhal. Son of a _bitch_ —

When he tries to move his arms, he finds them fastened behind his back. Even as he tugs and struggles and writhes, whatever it is holds fast, and something solid presses against the width of his shoulder blades. Glancing over his shoulder, Ed sees his wrists bound by something thick and suspiciously plastic-like, with one hand folded over the other so that clapping—if at all possible—would take some difficult maneuvering. Great. He’s also fucking tied to a chair.

Then he realizes that his automail is completely exposed, metal plates glimmering in the lowlight.

Bewildered, sweeps the room with gaze a second time. Behind him, atop a dresser shoved back against the wall and perpendicular to the door, his fleece coat and his jacket are draped over the furniture.

...bastard took his _clothes_ off. What the _fuck_.

“Klaus,” Ed hisses. Majhal isn’t here right now, weirdly enough. Maybe he’s out... doing whatever psychopaths do. Whatever, it gives him time. He tugs hard at the binding around his wrists but it holds firm. “ _Klaus_!”

There’s a soft groan, but otherwise no response.

Footsteps sound on the other side of the door. Ed freezes, panic pounding through his veins. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

Dublith blazes through his memory. He remembers the demon, Mason-in-a-mask, that terrorized him and Al during their time on, used to pummel them black-and-blue before snatching their dinner away. It got to the point where he and Al used to go limp after the first round, because it meant they could walk away with a faint limp and split lips instead of bruised ribs and broken collarbones. Their mastery only evolved under the spartan training regime of Izumi Curtis, who pushed them so much that there were some days where they trained until they physically couldn’t stand up anymore, and faking a collapse became a convenient method to avoid prolonged torment. It worked for awhile, but eventually she saw through them and any further attempts awarded them some rather nasty thrashings. There were nights Ed couldn’t sleep for the pain blaring through every inch of him.

Yet, the skill remains.

So Ed goes limp. Bows his head like the doll’s head, relaxes every muscle in his body. Slows his breathing, flutters his eyes shut—don’t squeeze! Squeezing is something you do when you’re conscious, even the slightest bit.

By the time the door opens, he’s fairly certain of his ability to pass for unconscious.

The footsteps approach him. He feels a presence settle over him, moments before a hand grips the back of his hair and pulls his head back. It takes all of Ed’s self-control to keep his body pliant.

“Still not awake, hm?” There’s displeasure in Majhal’s tone. A moment later, the hand releases, Ed’s head falls forward so fast he feels nauseous. “What a shame. You’re going to miss this.”

Horror blooms, soft and slow and cold as frost, inside Ed’s lungs. What the hell does “this” mean? It better not mean what he _thinks_ it means because oh _god_ —

“Wha...?”

At the sound of Klaus’s bleary voice, Ed almost jerks in his seat. He has to clamp down hard on the icy surge of panic flaring inside his chest and prays to god that Majhal doesn’t notice the way his muscles suddenly tense involuntarily.

“Oh dear.” Majhal’s voice is eerily calm. The fabric of his pants rustles minutely as he strides across the room. “You’re awake already?”

Oh no.

“What the...?” Ed tentatively cracks an eye open. He sees Majhal’s back, a dark silhouette in the gloom, and Klaus no longer limp her chair. Horror slowly dawns across her face, the color draining from her complexion, as she takes in—the rope, the circle, the deranged notes, the collection of dolls. When her saucer-wide gaze falls upon the doll strapped to the chair behind her, he can actually _see_ the scream building in her throat, the pressure building at the seams of her being and threatening to make them pop. “...what the _shit_?”

“I hope you’re not going to make this more difficult than it needs to be, Klaus.” Majhal runs a hand through the fake curls of the Karin-doll’s hair, slow and tender, some mockery of what might have once been affection. Ed snaps his eye shut again because he can’t stand to watch. “If something goes wrong in the transmutation, I can’t guarantee your safety.”

Every instinct inside of Ed _screams_ with the urge to tear himself free, to grab Majhal by the throat and slam him against the ground. It’s such a violent, primal impulse that it startles him—it clashes horribly with his attempts to stay calm, stay rational, think, think, think. He’s a scientist and he’s smart and Teacher taught him to use his _head_.

“...oh my god.” Horror colors her voice, sharp and high and piercing. Ed’s pulse thrums through his veins at the sound of it. He can _hear_ the way her blood chills, hear the way her stomach lurches. “Oh my _god_! It’s _you_ —the whole time—oh my _god_!”

Stifling his grunts of effort, Ed tugs at his restraints again. It must be some kind of transmuted mylar or something, a substance with high tensile strength and a resistance to being stretched out—but he’s got a damn metal arm so that has to count for _something_. He doesn’t even have to get free, just line his wrists up so he can clap and transmute and—

There’s a rustle of movement, punctuated by Klaus’s strained grunts and muffled screaming. He cracks his eye open, his head drooping and his gaze trained on the floor—he has to look down or that bestial impulse will rear its head again, and he’s not sure he can contain it. His head is pounding anew, with a vehemence that suggests hatred or murderous intent. He thinks of all those girls who disappeared over the years and it’s almost too much.

_Think!_

A long stick of chalk sits next to his left foot, bright white against the dark floorboards.

“Liesel,” Klaus says urgently, revelatory. Majhal is bent down, touching up a few smudged sigils on the ground-array, but he hesitates a moment when she says that. “Oh my _god_ —in the w-woods—I t-thought I heard her v- _voice_ —”

He pauses his task of toeing the chalk stick with his boot. All of a sudden, he is thrust back into the woods, standing breathlessly before the marionette, the mockery of a living being. Her tremulous bodily movements, the rawness of her plea for help—the force with which it clicks into place reignites the dull throbbing in his skull.

_“Klaus acted kind of funny after she spoke.”_

...the absolute _bastard_. Ed actively clamps down on the impulse to snarl.

“You _killed_ her.” The horror gives way to red-hot fury, the kind of raw anger that bleeds from a wound of grief. Ed knows that sort of anger well, wrestled with it long and hard after Dad died, after the transmutation failed. He doesn’t need to look at Klaus’s eyes to see the inferno boiling inside them.

There’s a rattling as Klaus attempts to free herself, struggling and writhing wildly—but a precursory glance at the chair legs reveals them to be bolted to the floor, as though in preparation for just such an event. Ed can’t bring himself to wonder how many girls have rattled around in that chair, desperate for their freedom.

“She didn’t give me much _choice_ ,” Majhal huffs indignantly as he stands back up. Ed snaps his eye shut again, lest Majhal realize he’s actually conscious. He tries to calm his breathing, tries to not to vomit in his mouth.

His attempt to steady the stick of chalk beneath his boot is failing miserably. He doesn’t have enough dexterity in his left foot—automail toes are not afforded the mobility of automail fingers. The audience of marionettes peer at him, empty-eyed and accusing. Swallowing the frustration building in his throat, he teases the stick over to his other foot.

“You fucking _murdered_ her!”

“If I left her to run rampant, they’d have hunted her down and destroyed her.” There’s no passion in Majhal’s voice at all he says this, only an unsettling sense of certainty that borders on unnerving. “Then the rumors would have just grown worse. And Karin would’ve had to suffer for it!”

Would Ed be able to draw a circle if he held the chalk between his toes? Probably. But that would require taking his boot off, and the chances of him getting away with that, without Majhal noticing, are very slim. A surge of frustrated helpless goes through him.

“You’re sick,” Klaus spits, venom and brimstone.

 _Shit_ , Ed thinks, heart hammering in his chest. The chalk once again rolls in a lethargic half-circle and he bites back a scream of helplessness. _Can’t draw a circle like this...!_

“Come, come. You’re _overreacting_.” Ed glances up briefly to see Majhal cup Klaus’s jaw with one hand and tilt her chin up to meet his eyes, but he has to look away again because his skin crawls and his stomach rises to his throat. “You’ve been given a _fantastic_ opportunity, Klaus. Should this transmutation succeed, you’ll have the luxury of becoming the _new_ Karin!”

The breath stalls in Ed’s lungs.

“...you’re serious.” The budding hysteria in Klaus’s voice snaps and breaks beneath her words. Her breath hitches. “Oh my g- _god_ you’re freaking s- _serious_ —”

Fuck. Fuck. No time to draw a circle. He can’t free his hands. And if that array at Klaus’s feet serves the purpose Ed _suspects_ it does, then he has to act _fast_.

He eyes the stick of chalk at his feet. Failed transmutations tend to backlash against the alchemist performing it. Majhal, for all his insanity, probably balanced the equation—hell, if he really was responsible for twenty years’ worth of little girls’ deaths, then he’s had plenty of fucking time to perfect the array. So rebound is unlikely.

But a surfeit*—that’s very likely.

Unlike a rebound, it won’t be deadly. At most, it will be a minor inconvenience, a delay of the inevitable. But it won’t endanger Klaus and it’ll buy him more time, so here goes nothing.

Opportunity presents itself when Majhal turns his back to Klaus. Whatever he says, his tone rich in chillingly dark enthusiasm as he appraises his collection of marionettes, is drowned by her growing hysteria. Ed breathes in deeply, and then kicks the chalk stick across the floor.

It breaks in half as it bounces across the grimy hardwood, leaving a puff of dust in its wake. The longer half slows to a roll as it approaches the rim of the array—Ed smothers a desperate whine.

Then, very slowly, it comes to a stop _just_ inside the circle.

Relief barely has time to settle in before it is quashed under the weight of his frustration. Tugging at his restraints, Ed doesn’t think he’s ever felt so helpless, so unable to do anything. The last time he felt this much dread was when Dad was dying and he couldn’t do a thing and—

( _this better fucking work_ )

Klaus sobs hysterically as Majhal whirls around. The manic grin on the man’s face—the wild, delusional mockery of ecstasy that makes his smile broad and his eyes so wide they look ready to burst from their sockets—is almost too much for Ed to bear. He swallows the urge to gag. There’s an unmistakable spring to the elder alchemist’s step, a barely contained glee, as he settles himself at the edge of the array. In the other chair, the doll’s head droops, ripples of auburn hair barely disturbed by the entire event.

Ed squeezes his eyes shut and prays to—not quite God, but something, anything, Truth or the Gate or Equivalent Exchange—that Majhal won’t notice the piece of chalk.

“Here we go then!” Majhal informs Klaus excitedly. She’s full out crying now, sobbing and whimpering and pleading for her life. He doesn’t seem to notice. Ed’s chest clenches.

_Can’t do a damn thing...!_

The air sparks and crackles with energy, thickens with the tell-tale ozone scent of transmutation. Klaus screams. Ed holds his breath, trying not to scream with her.

* * *

Majhal isn’t home.

It’s strange, and it bothers Winry in a way she can’t quite understand. An incessant, portentous needling settles in the pit of her stomach. Goosebumps rise up on her arms, even though it’s the exact opposite of cold right now.

The way the door creaks open, almost purposefully slow, doesn’t help.

She sweeps her gaze across the kitchen, the living room, the breakfast table. The pile of books that Ed left out earlier today are untouched, and that alone is unusual. Edward Hohenheim doesn’t leave books untouched. Edward Hohenheim devours books with more ferocity than any food, so the fact that they are still in same position as before—not even moved back to the library with the respect that he usually affords to books and she treats her tools with—is unnerving.

“I’m going to check the bedrooms,” Al declares, and immediately shuffles off down the hall with his conspicuous clanking. Winry only nods absently, giving the strap of her duffle bag a squeeze.

Lebi lingers awkwardly in the doorway, torn between uncertainty and a sort of silent longing that she refuses to express in words. Her gaze sweeps the room with a pained kind of nostalgia. Winry wonders what it must be like for her, after so long. Twenty years is such a long time. Things change so drastically in a matter of months—but years? Decades? She can’t even imagine.

“It’s okay to come in,” she tells the older woman softly. Lebi casts her a doubtful look and Winry attempts to smile reassuringly.

Distantly, Al’s clanking can be heard down the hall. Auburn curls fall across Lebi’s face as she turns it away. “...it all looks so different. He’s taken down everything...”

There’s an answer on the tip of Winry’s tongue, a reassurance or a platitude or something else comforting—but at that moment, Al re-emerges from the hallway with a sharp and urgent creak. The wild, slightly-panicked look in his gleaming eyes stills the words in her throat.

“Al?”

“He’s not in the rooms,” Al says sharply. By “he”, she knows immediately that he means Ed and not Majhal. His brother is his foremost concern. “I’m—going to check the lab out back.”

“Uh.” Her bewilderment is offset sharply by the blooming sense of unease in the pit of her chest. “We’ll keep searching the house, then?”

He barely nods before he’s whirling around and jogging down the hall. As his clanking footsteps retreat, Winry can’t fight the surge of dread that settles in her gut.

* * *

There’s a bang, and pop, and then the air fills with chalk dust.

Majhal splutters indignantly. Klaus’s scream chokes and transitions into a coughing fit. Ed sighs softly in relief.

Here’s the thing—calcium carbonate is a very simple substance. It’s laughably easy to transmute, one of the earlier lattices that’s presented in the beginner’s guides. In fact, it’s the third lattice that Ed ever learned how to draw and properly implement.

But an array designed to transmute the soul does not factor in this simple substance. It’s an added element, something extra and unaccounted for—and that is, in essence, a surfeit.

 _Equivalent Exchange._ Ed smirks, even as his heart refuses to still and instead blares loudly in his ears, which only worsens the throbbing in his skull. _You get what you give. If you give too little, something of equal value is taken as a replacement. If you give too much, the transmutation stops and the equation forcibly ejects the excess._

“What—” Majhal’s furious growl is halted by a sudden onset of coughing. “What _happened_?”

The only response he gets is Klaus’s hacking cough. Ed bites the inside of his cheek and only takes shallow breaths. The acridity of transmutation energy stings his lungs, but he swallows it down. He’s not going to give himself away with a coughing fit.

A truncated growl of frustration permeates the air, followed by the sharp snap of footsteps against hardwood. The footsteps approach Ed, and panic flares briefly and hotly in his lungs. Luckily, the only thing Majhal does, with the barest trace of acknowledgement of Ed and his limp form, is grunt before the door swings open. When it slams shut, the crash of wood resounds through the small room.

Once Majhal’s thudding footsteps are deemed far enough away, Ed tentatively cracks an eye open. He’s met by the dark room, and a faint cloud of white dust that’s settling down on the grimy floorboards. Klaus’s breathing has softened and smoothed out, though there’s a wheezing quality to each inhalation.

He raises his head. Majhal may be crazy, but even he seems to acknowledge that transmuting in a poor mental state will do him no favors. With the man out clearing his head, Ed has precious time.

Urgently, he turns to Klaus. She’s just started to come back from the adrenaline of having your life threatened. Above her, the row of marionettes watches impassively, like a court of gods. “Are you okay?”

His voice makes her jolt in place like she was hit by a live wire. When she whirls around, her inky hair flies like a banner, eyes wild and wet with unshed tears. “You’re _awake_?”

“Yeah, listen.” Every minute counts and Ed is bad at bartering. He tugs stubbornly at his restraints. Just the slightest inch of wiggle room is all he needs to make this work. “We don’t have a lot of time—”

“There’s _blood_ on your head,” she murmurs, alarmed.

“...there is?” It makes sense, considering the torturous throbbing in his temples and the vague recollection of Majhal striking him with something heavy. But potential concussions could be worried about once they were safe. “Not important! Look, I’ve got a plan.”

Skepticism crosses her face, but it’s not enough to bury her desperation. At her sides, her hands clench and unclench. “How much of a plan?”

Either by pure coincidence or as a sign from the universe, Ed feels his wrists _shift_ around the mylar binding. They’re not lined up enough for him to clap, but a rush of elation fills him regardless. “Like, thirty-two percent.”

“Are you _kidding_ me?” The glossiness of her eyes threatens to spill over. “That’s not a _plan_ —that’s a _concept_ at _best_!”

“Keep your voice down!” he hisses and glances cautiously at the door. When the handle doesn’t turn and nothing shifts, his hackles flatten. “Look, just— _stall_. Okay?”

Her answer is stolen by the handle turning abruptly. Klaus gasps. Ed immediately lets his body drop forward.

The door creaks and then footsteps, far more measured than when they departed, make their way back into the lab. They stop abruptly at Ed’s side. He feels a shadow looming over him a heartbeat before the touch of blunt nails greets his chin. Ed has to actively repress the urge to recoil as Majhal tilts his head up. “I couldn’t have hit him _that_ hard,” comes the absent-minded musing.

Ed’s chin drops forward as Majhal releases him. His relief, however, is short-lived, because then that same hand is gripping a fistful of his hair and _tugging_. Pain sparks through his already battered skull.

“C’mon, c’mon.” Majhal is _shaking_ him now. Ed hopes his bangs conceal his face enough that the man can’t see his involuntary grimace. “Up and at ‘em. I need _you_ to help me adjust the array.”

A snort. It sounds like Klaus. “You need a kid to help you with your alchemy? _Wow_.”

False bravado drips from her voice, but it seems to rankle him regardless. His grip on Ed’s hair tightens. “ _You_ be quiet. Consider yourself lucky you’ve even been considered at all!”

There’s a beat of silence. Then a shift of movement.

“...say that again?” There’s no fear in Klaus’s voice now, only an undercurrent of anger.

Ed prays that Majhal is too preoccupied with Klaus to notice him surreptitiously wriggling his hands around the mylar binding. “You heard me,” Majhal repeats, sharp and just a bit frayed. Ed wonders how long it will take to wash the man’s oily touch from his hair. “Do you honestly think you are worthy of embodying such a goddess as Karin? She’s the most beautiful woman to have ever existed—with the beauty of a summer’s rose. You, by comparison, are a sniveling _whelp_!”

“Do you not _hear_ how psycho _pathic_ you sound?” Klaus bites back. Thank god for anger and adrenaline—two things that are invaluable when your life is in danger. “You _murdered_ my _sister_ —and for _what_? Some _delusion_?”

Nails bite into Ed’s flesh. He tries not to whimper. “You shut your _mouth_! How could you _possibly_ understand the depths of my despair? The depths of my affections?”

“The only thing _I_ understand is that you couldn’t keep a lid on your damn puppets!” There’s a note of triumph in Klaus’s voice, although it may just as easily be spite. “My sister got _out_. She got _away_ from you. Hell—I bet that’s how the rumors started in the _first_ place! ‘Cause you couldn’t build a proper prison!”

“My intent was _never_ to imprison them,” Majhal retorts angrily. He tugs hard at Ed’s hair and Ed can actually feel the back legs of the chair lift temporarily. “All I _ever_ wanted was my beloved Karin back. In the end, I had to settle for something _like_ her. Do you have an idea the pain, the agony, the despair that I have wrestled with over the years? Every time one of the vessels is rejected, it’s like losing her all over again!”

“Don’t even _pretend_ you care about them.” It’s definitely spite, Ed decides. And something else far more poisonous. Resentment, and maybe even hatred.

Pain builds in Ed’s skull. The back legs of the chair lift again—higher, higher, _higher_. Then a tug, then pain, then wood clattering on wood. Ed suddenly finds his temple against the grimy floor, which does nothing for his headache. He swallows a grunt of pain.

“You understand nothing. You are a _child_.” Ed dares to open his eyes. Majhal stalks over to Klaus with a dangerous, predatory sort of gait, but he dares look no higher than the man’s shoulders. In one hand, two metal instruments are clutched—a chisel, long and blunt, and a hammer that’s been worn to the point of dullness. “Twenty years, I spent without her. Twenty years! And no matter how I work, they just. Keep. _Dying_!”

Klaus’s feet pull closer to the chair legs, perhaps unconsciously. With Majhal’s attention so focused on her, Ed shifts on one knee and shifts the chair’s weight until he’s kneeling, pinned by its bulky form. His wrists still aren’t aligned. Dammit.

“Were you _trying_ to kill me, then?” Klaus asks, voice small.

“You’re a test subject,” responds Majhal coolly. Ed watches as his free hand reaches out. He can’t tell if the man touches Klaus or the limp doll behind her, but then the false auburn hair shifts and it’s clear where his priorities lie. “A last trial to see if I can get it right on my own. But really, it’s no big loss if it doesn’t work. And who knows? You might even live long enough to see Edward help me create the new Karin.”

Abruptly, Ed’s wrists slide into place, parallel with one another, cold steel abruptly kissing the sensitive warmth of his flesh wrist.

Her feet plant firmly on the ground. Perhaps in defiance. “You’re _sick_.”

The air still hums with the residue of the failed transmutation. Majhal and Klaus are too preoccupied to notice the cracklespark of transmutation. Ed claps, palm against palm.

**(—the circle is the guide and energy flows within—)**

“I did it for love,” responds the madman, almost chidingly. “Any sane man would do the same.”

He can’t reach the mylar, no matter how hard he strains. The only thing he can do is—oh, Winry is going to kill him.

**(HYDRAULIC OIL—BASE OF DIETHOLYENE GLYCOL—BOILING POINT OF APPROXIMATELY 245 oC—CALCULATE HYDRAULIC PRESSURE)**

His fingers meet cool metal.

( _please work please work please work—_ )

**(TRANSMUTE)**

There’s an abrupt pain up his automail arm, not quite as intense as the installation or attachment but severe nonetheless. Metal groans and cracks and pressure buds beneath the metal plating. The mylar strains to keep it contained—and then _pops_.

By the time Majhal whirls around, Ed has already cast the chair aside and leaped to his feet. The plating of his arm is loose, thick steam pouring out from beneath. He tries not to breath it in, because dietholyene glycol is highly toxic and—whoops, maybe he shouldn’t have released its gaseous form into a sealed room.

 _Better end this quickly then._ “I think you and I have a _very_ different definition of ‘sane’.”

A dark look crosses Majhal’s face. Ed doesn’t have time to be properly afraid before there’s a flash of transmutation—he didn’t even notice the metal bracelet or the array inscribed on it until the tools in the man’s hand suddenly warp. Majhal swings, metal flashing.

Instinctively, Ed ducks, flesh hand grabbing the leg of the discarded chair. He throws its weight over him as something sharp and steely whispers through the air. A blade—gleaming steel, a short sword with a hilt that is vaguely stylized like rose petals—bites deep into the wood.

_Dammit!_

Majhal wrenches his weapon free a moment later, and the force that he uses rips the chair out of Ed’s hands. It’s cast aside, nearly hitting Klaus as it clatters to the ground. She yelps in alarm and Ed’s chest clenches urgently, but his attention is quickly occupied by the murderous rage that outfits Majhal’s face.

“Troublesome _pest_ ,” spits the older man.

The door behind Ed swings open with a resounding _slam_. Ed whirls around—and nearly bursts out laughing, dizzy with the relief that crashes over him.

Al’s immense form floods the doorway, eyes glowing and urgent. They dart around to take in the scene and every incriminating detail of it. “What the _hell_ is going on here?”

It is perhaps a true testament to the insanity of the situation that Al curses, but there’s no time to linger on that. “Majhal’s crazy!” Ed shouts, just as the air whistles. He scarcely has time to bring his steel arm up before the blade collides with it. “Get Klaus!”

* * *

The library, for the most part, looks untouched, but Winry gets the feeling that something happened here.

To her left, a long row of books stretches out, meticulously aligned and almost compulsively sorted by color. The bookends are stylized like winding roses with thornless stems and large, blushing petals. They’re very intricate, with some sort of Xerxean script carved in the bases. It doesn’t mean a thing to her. It would probably mean something to Ed or Al.

There’s something... off. She notices that there’s a book that’s just slightly unaligned. Not pushed back enough to line it up with the rest of the row. Maybe it was pulled out recently, then put back. But the title, writ in glimmering silver letters that shimmer within its leather cover, reads _Alchemy and History: An Analysis of Amestrian Technologic Advancement_. And that doesn’t sound very pertinent to the Philosopher’s Stone. So why would Ed disturb something so unrelated to his quest? There was always the possibility that Majhal might have read it, but to what end?

Frowning, she slides it loose. The pages are folded and crumpled, pressed shut—that’s not how alchemists treat books. Granted, her experience is limited to the Hohenheim family, who all seem to worship books with a strange reverence, but surely even Majhal would acknowledge their importance.

She flips it open and smooths out the pages. The creases don’t look old, only pressed with a sharpness that comes from being closed down on. Her frown deepens as she snaps it back closed, then slides it back into place.

Something about the nearest bookend makes her pause. It’s soft, brassy metal that’s curved in a way so it looks deceptively delicate and airy. She idly runs her fingers across the petals, then frowns when the pad of her forefinger comes across something rough and crusty. Unease blossoms in her chest as she scrapes at it with her fingernail.

It’s reddish-brown, and smells faintly of copper. Winry may not have gone to medical school, but she helped in Ed’s surgery and a few half-dozen other automail installations and she _knows_ what dried blood looks like.

“Find anything?” Lebi calls from down the hall.

Her heart thumps faintly in her throat. She draws back, quickly wiping the crusted blood on her borrowed pants. “We need to go out back and find Al. I—I think something happened.”

* * *

Automail clashes against tempered steel. The plating of Ed’s arm is loosened further by each blow and every movement sends fresh pain flaring through his shoulder. Wires flash beneath the plates in multicolored veins. Steam continues to trickle out, slow and insidious. All it will take is one well-timed, well-placed strike and the whole thing might just fall apart.

One thing, at least, is clear. Winry is going to _kill_ him.

Thankfully, Al doesn’t waste any time. There’s a harried shuffle-shuffle-clank and a distant blur of metal, but Ed can’t focus on it for too long. The blur of the blade comes with Majhal’s face filling his vision—wild, feral eyes and yellow teeth and the shadows making his face look absolutely _savage_. He gets the vague feeling that he’s fighting a beast some kind, something gone mad and abandoned its sanity for survival long ago.

The force of the next blow has Ed jolting back. Then, abruptly, there’s a sharp pop and raw, deep pain floods his shoulder. His skull throbs with new intensity. His nerves _scream_. Sparks flare through the air.

Something draws Majhal’s attention away from Ed, briefly, because the next thing Ed knows, there’s a hand on his flesh arm and then the world is whirling. He briefly sees Al and Klaus and the impassive audience of marionettes—then it abruptly goes still.

Cold kisses the delicate flesh of his throat. His back is braced against something hot and solid and grimy. Blunt, insistent fingernails dig into his flesh forearm, pinning it behind his back. His metal arm is frozen in a blocking position, gears straining but nothing able to shift or move without lubrication.

Repeat. Winry is going to _kill_ him.

“Back away from the girl,” hisses Majhal, sounding desperately feral, “or I slit the boy’s throat.”

Rope still clutched in one large leather hand, Al freezes abruptly with eyes shimmering bloodily red. Alarm widens Klaus’s eyes. The row of marionettes peer at the scene with impassive gazes.

His reflection flickers golden in the blade’s polished surface. A tight sort of anxiety fills Ed’s chest.

Very slowly, Al releases the rope. He takes a careful, creaking step away from Klaus. He holds his hands out in a placating gesture. “Mr. Majhal. You don’t have to do this. _Any_ of this. You don’t have to—”

“Walk out the door.” The sword’s edge presses delicately to Ed’s skin. “And close it on the way out.”

“Al. Take Klaus and _run_.”

Al flashes him a panicked look. Majhal’s grip on Ed’s forearm tightens. There’s a dangerous glint to the blade’s tip. “Don’t try and be a hero, little boy.”

“Who the _fuck_ are you calling a ‘little’?” Ed snarls back. The pain throbbing in his shoulder clashes horribly with the pounding in his skull. He stains his arm—gears click and screech.

“You’ve ruined _everything_ ,” is the savage response. A small sting of pain flickers across Ed’s throat. Al lets out a breathy noise of alarm. “All I want—all I’ve _ever_ wanted—is my Karin back—”

“And that means you get to sacrifice lives in the _process_?” The blank-faced marionettes stare, but all he sees is the one from the woods (Liesel) and the dozens of the girls that came before and Klaus tied a fucking chair. Something furious and righteous blazes in his stomach. “Those are _lives_ , Majhal! Human! _Lives_!”

“You know.” Warmth springs from the cut on Ed’s throat. “You sound _annoyingly_ like your father.”

_Why the **fuck** would my father associate with someone like you?_

“...James?”

The blade gives a subtle jerk. Ed glances at the doorway—the old woman from this afternoon stands there, a shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders.  A leathery hand is raised to her mouth, but it hasn’t quite made it, so it only remains there, trembling in place, as though she’s lost the strength to move any further. The single lightbulb casts ephemeral shadows across her aged, weathered face, highlights the horror in her wide, trembling eyes and the silver threading in her curls. At her side, Winry hovers, horrified, her dark clothes seeming to swallow her until she is one with the gloom, save for the paleness of her face and vanilla hair, which stand out all the more starkly.

 _Oh my god_ , she mouths. Light sparkles in her glossy eyes.

 _Run_ , he mouths back.

Abruptly, the blade is returned its place, just a breath away from Ed’s throat. The grip on his arm tightens insistently. “What are _you_ doing here?”

Lebi, Ed recalls distantly, is the name of the woman who scans the back wall. The marionettes that occupy it are unabashed, unashamed, and meet her terror with cold impassion. “What have you _done_?”

Something warm and wet trickles slowly down Ed’s throat. A hiss of displeasure sounds from above. “This has _nothing_ to do with you.”

“It has _everything_ to do with her!” Winry shoulders her way passed Lebi’s stagnant form. She all but stumbles loose in a spillage of black clothes and long blonde hair. Something urgent glows in her eyes, contrasting with the wetness and the fear gathering there. “Karin didn’t die!”

Everything seems to come to an abrupt, screeching halt. Time collapses down on them, like a sand castle someone took their foot to and sent everything splaying into the air. Ed feels his heart thump in his throat, the faint wound starting to sting. Hydraulic fluid cools and condenses on the underside of his automail plates.

Majhal draws a sharp breath over head. His fingers flex around the hilt of the sword. “...what did you say?”

“Karin has never been dead.” There’s a tremor in Winry’s body as she steps forward, a faint shudder in her shoulders. Majhal takes a large step back, tugging Ed with him, and she stops. The brief unease that flashes across her face quickly hardens into resolve. “That day, when she fell off the cliff? She didn’t lose her life. She lost something else instead—her memories.”

“It’s true.” It’s Al who says this, slowly inching way over to Klaus, who peers up at him disbelievingly. When Majhal’s gaze suddenly pins him, he stops, and very slowly brings his hands up again. “She was found by the villagers of the nearby town—Lilyridge. She stayed there for a long time, unaware of who she was or the life she left behind.”

Floorboards creak softly. Winry tenses, also bringing her hands up in a surrendering gesture, but doesn’t pull her foot back. Her gaze remains steadfastly on Majhal. “But her memories starting coming back over the years, little by little. And then all at once!”

A soft, strangled groan sounds within the depths of Ed’s arm. Fresh pain washes over him and he hisses a breath through his teeth. In the doorway, Lebi has not moved, but her expression has changed to one of pleading and desperation, a sort of denial you neve recognize in yourself. It clicks, moments before Winry starts speaking again.

“When she came back, no one recognized her. Not even you.” There’s something delicate about the way Winry says that. Delicate and deeply sad. “The person you’ve missed for so long has been right under your nose the whole time.”

“James.” Lebi—Karin—takes a tentative step forward.

But Majhal steps back. “...you expect me to believe this withered old bat is my Karin?”

“Well... yeah!” A slightly wild look enters Winry’s eye. Ed can’t see Majhal’s face, can’t look up without inviting the blade to dig deeper, but he imagines the man’s reaction is not what she expected. “Because it really is her!”

“Karin,” says Majhal, very slowly, voice thick with disbelief, “was a woman of incomparable beauty. She was perfection incarnate. Not unlike a rose.”

“Roses wither.” Karin’s whisper seems to fill the entire room. She lowers her head, almost as though ashamed, but her eyes are just slightly raised. Almost entreating. “...but love doesn’t. James, I—”

“Silence!” Majhal’s shout booms in Ed’s ear. The joint of his shoulder gives a faint squeak. “How dare you pretend to be her! How _dare_ you!”

All of sudden, there’s a sensation of something _clicking_ , and Ed is hit by a _rush_ that is neither pain nor adrenaline but maybe something in between. His metal arm suddenly jerks and the elbow slams _hard_ into Majhal’s side. Hard enough to wind him.

Thankfully, the impact causes Majhal’s arm to jerk outward instead of inward. Rather that sliding through Ed’s sensitive throat, the sword flies out of his hand.

Its hilt strikes the edge of the nearby desk with a resounding _crack_. Remarkably, the sword _bounces_ , of all things, and it’s sent spinning through the air. The whistle of the blade sounds almost like a scream. Acting purely on instinct, Ed bolts out of the way as gravity tugs it back down.

Majhal is not so lucky.

Just as Ed turns back, there’s a wet squelch and then his face is assaulted by a splash of something warm and red.

Someone screams—it might be Lebi or Klaus or even Winry, but all he knows is red, red, red.

It’s on his face and in his hair and on his clothes and dripping from his automail arm. Red on the blade and red on the body and darkening the fabric where oh god oh _god_. Red on the floor, pooling ever-outwards, and then someone is shouldering their way past him. The air grows thick and coppery and there’s hushed words, Lebi crouching on the ground and murmuring feverishly. It feels like someone splashed hot paint all over Ed and Majhal is looking off to the side, at his constructed audience, his impassive spectators, and he murmurs something tender, some mockery of affection.

“I—” Ed chokes. His throat isn’t working. His brain isn’t working. His clothes are wet and his hair is dripping and his shoulder is screaming with agony and his temples pound from where he was hit. “Gonna—get help—”

That’s all he registers before he’s running, every footstep reverberating through his skeleton. The air is cool against the wetness on his face and there’s a distant booming. Colors flash dazzlingly across the ground but Ed doesn’t see, doesn’t hear, can’t feel a thing except red, red, red.

All of a sudden there are hands on him and a rough voice asking him what’s wrong. He thinks he might respond, because he hears himself say “Majhal”, or at least hears someone who sounds an awful lot like him, because he doesn’t feel his lips move, doesn’t feel his vocal chords vibrate. All he feels is warm and wet and _red_.

Urgent footsteps that aren’t his. Shouting. Rough hands on his arm. It all feels so far away, so distant.

There’s a thick, coppery stench in the air. Like _that night_.

His stomach lurches, suddenly. Painful heat crawls up his throat and then he is on his hands and knees and expelling it violently. There’s someone by him, he doesn’t know who, because all he knows is red and blood— _oh god_ —and vomit and retching and tears in his eyes.

Fireworks illuminate the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terminology:  
> Surfeit = the opposite of a rebound, a surfeit occurs when there is some component in the transmutation not calculated for. This usually causes the transmutation to halt and eject the excess substance.
> 
> Title of this chapter and the last comes from the poem "Love Planted A Rose" by Katharine Lee Bates.
> 
> So one of the biggest problems I have with '03 is _this episode_ —not because it isn’t plot relevant or anything. I can deal with that. But Majhal _dies_ is violent manner that is pretty directly the Elrics’ fault. And the biggest reaction they have to it is being a little depressed.
> 
> I’m sorry, but for everyone who says that '03 realistically portrays trauma has to acknowledge that it does not do so consistently. When it wants to, '03 does a fantastic job with trauma, but this is _not_ one of those episodes. (This and the eighth episode, where Winry is used a damsel in distress which _angers me_ , and then they just go and gloss over _her_ trauma, and, just... _augh_ ). Plus _Klaus_. Her character doesn't display any hint of trauma or fear or anything at the end of the episode. I mean, fuck, the fourth episode had an interesting premise but the execution was absolute shit. Even the foreshadowing it offers is pretty lousy.
> 
> But enough about my issues with '03 (which I still do love, despite its many flaws). This concludes the Majhal arc, and we'll be getting back to the main plotline soon enough.
> 
> Side note: The hydraulic oil in Ed’s automail is similar to modern brake fluid, which is made mainly from dietholyene glycol. Dietholyene glycol has a very high boiling point (approx. 470 Fahrenheit) and is also mildly poisonous.
> 
> If you have any comments, questions, or critique, don't hesitate to drop comment.
> 
> Sincerely,  
> The Immortal Moon


	15. Hollow Bodies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s not going to change _anything_!” The breakage in Brother’s shout is vicious. “A man is dead! _Dead_ , Al! How am I supposed to eat and pretend everything’s fucking okay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Contains mentions of anxiety and anxiety attacks. Reader discretion is advised.

_“Can’t stop these feet from sinking_  
_And it’s starting to show on me_  
_You’re staring while I’m blinking_  
_But just don’t tell me what you see”_  
—Katelyn Tarver, “You Don’t Know”

 

_~1911_

What happened next was something of a blur to Al.

He knows they left Bumble Hollow the next morning. There were faint whispers of Lebi planning to leave, return to her home in Lilyridge, but nothing else, nothing concrete. There was Klaus there, somewhere, with bags under her eyes and a tired smile that looked as though it might falter any moment, who wore a dress for the first time he’d seen. The soft blue fabric seemed to make her look younger and more vulnerable, somehow, even though her narrow face looked like a flinty wedge. She shook their hands and thanked them each.

“You saved my life,” she told them, though there was nothing in her eyes that suggested gratitude, only a sort of grim acknowledgement and a lingering spark that told Al she would not be forgiving the dead man anytime soon.

He did not blame her for it. Part of him wanted to offer some sort of condolence, some advice, but he remembered what happened whenever Uncle or Auntie or Granny tried to help him and Brother through their pain, and they hadn’t listened at all. Somehow, he doubted it will be any different this time. So he only accepted her thanks and wished her well, and hoped that it was enough.

Brother only nodded listlessly, and didn’t say anything at all.

The encounter left Brother’s automail absolutely _wrecked_. It became a rigid, unmoving hunk of mangled steel that hung in pieces from his shoulder socket. When Winry finally got around to checking it, she gaped at the loose-hanging plating and the exposed wires with a dismay that bordered on horror. A whine built in the back of her throat as she grabbed the wrist joint and experimentally tried to shift it, only to earn a shrill squeak in stubborn protest.

“What did you _do_?” she demanded, more distressed than furious. Recent events seemed to have drained the capacity for anger from her.

A wince crossed Brother’s face and he looked away pointedly. Someone had wrapped thick white gauze around his forehead, so no one could see the nasty bruising and scabbing cuts on his temples. “...evaporated the hydraulic fluid.”

“You _realize_ that it’s _poisonous_ , right? Even in gaseous form! If you’d _breathed it in_ —”

“...I didn’t think that far,” he admitted quietly. “But I think the room was ventilated—maybe?”

For once, Al was mildly grateful not to have lungs.

After returning to Kaumafy, they immediately hopped a train to East City, where Winry hoped to take advantage of the automail market present there to accrue a new supply of hydraulic fluid. In the meantime, she had to mend the surface damage alchemically.

The thing you need to realize about this is that Winry doesn’t believe in using alchemy on her automail. In her words, automail is too finicky, its mechanisms and wiring precise to the point that it requires the delicacy of human touch, something that alchemy cannot provide. Though she concedes the science’s usefulness in repairing things, she doesn’t put enough faith in chalk circles not to melt gears and pressurized springs, instead choosing the reliability of her spanner and other tools. He once suggested that she just transmute the raw sheet metal that came in from the blacksmiths’, so she didn’t have to measure and cut and several hours’ worth of work in a matter of minutes, because that’s just the outer plating and not the delicate inner workings. But she had frowned and shaken her head. There was something more satisfying, she’d countered, about pouring your heart and soul into something. Getting instantaneous results felt cheaper, like it somehow made the automail less worthy. It was a matter of principle.

It was clear that she wasn’t fond of using alchemy in this case either, but she explained on the ride up to Kaumafy why she didn’t have much choice in the manner. “It’s _dangerous_. Especially if you damage the internal wiring,” she scolded Brother as she examined the prosthesis. “Oh my god! You _did_ damage the internal wiring!”

“Sorry,” Brother said listlessly. His eyes were fixed on the window. The autumn trees looked like someone set them aflame, like any moment they would burn down into ashes and smoke.

“This is _serious_.” There was something grim and urgent in her eyes. “The wires are connected to your _nerves_ , Ed. I can’t imagine the sort of strain this is placing on your system... you’re not in pain, are you?”

The only response was an apathetic, one-shouldered shrug.

At that moment, the carriage happened to go over a bump, and Brother’s arm suddenly jerked. He snapped his jaw tightly, to the point where Al could audibly hear the clack of his teeth. A whine trembled in the back of his throat.

“You _are_ in pain!” she exclaimed. “Why didn’t you _say_ anything?”

Wincing deeply, Brother massaged his shoulder with his flesh hand. “M’fine.”

“ _No_ , you’re _not_.” A fierceness overtook Winry’s eyes at that. Not a scolding fierceness, but it was definitely reproaching, mingled with a deep-seated concern. “First of all, you’ve got a _concussion_. That _alone_ should send you to the hospital! But between that and the internal wiring damage—if you wrecked this any more, you could suffer some _serious_ neurological injury!”

A flutter of alarm went through Al at that, chased quickly by something that, in a being of flesh and blood, would be accompanied by nausea and stomach-turning dread. “I-I didn’t know automail was that dangerous...”

“...it’s not _supposed_ to be,” she retorted, almost defensively. It was the same sort of defensiveness that thrills within him or Brother when alchemy is mistakenly referred to as magic. A somberness pervaded her features a moment later, though, and she released a sigh as she turned to rifle through her duffle bag of tools. “Only when it’s cheaply made, improperly wired, or badly damaged. There’s a reason that engineers prefer the custom-stuff from the blacksmith over the mass-produced factory plates. It’s the sort of thing that needs a practitioner’s touch.” She pursed her lip as she pulled out a screwdriver. “It’s _delicate equipment_.”

Al looked at the ruinous state of the appendage, the exposed cables and the buckled plating and the bare metal frame—and he had to look away. He could have sworn he felt something itch in the back of the cuirass, where the blood seal lay, the binding between his being and this unwieldy steel body. The seal drawn in Ed’s blood.

( _the whole reason Brother lost his arm is because of me_ )

She cast a look at Brother, one that was grim and intense but lacked the same wrench-wielding fury that usually came from her ranting threats involving automail and the breaking of her constructions. Using the nose of her screwdriver, she teased at the topmost shoulder-plate until it opened with a sudden _pop_. The wires underneath were lurid, green and red and blue. “Normally if it something were damaged this bad, I’d detach it and work on it separately.” Whatever she saw must have been grave, because her brows furrowed and she chewed worriedly at her lower lip. “But I don’t know what that would do here... It might just cause more harm. The best I can do is manually disconnect the nerves to prevent further damage.”

Three removed screws and a carriage fee later, Brother’s arm was supported in makeshift sling, which meant that the joints could at least bend now, so it was something of an improvement. They boarded a train and Winry traced chalk circles on the metal plates to smooth them out, reaffix them into place so they wouldn’t hang loose so grotesquely. She frowned, warring internally with her principles, but ultimately put them aside in favor of her work ethic. She was fine with being a hypocrite if it meant her patient was helped.

All the while, Brother hadn’t said a word.

* * *

Now:

People are staring.

Al shuffles awkwardly beneath the awning of a bodega that advertises the best chilli-dogs this side of Central. As the chef stirs a vat of greasy-looking meat mush—which would undoubtedly give off the savory aroma of fat and salt that so appeals to the human palate—Al tries his best not to notice the people eyeing him oddly as they stride down the sidewalk. They pause subtly, perform a double-take, then quicken their pace just as subtly as they move onward. There is a man in a nearby phonebooth, a business man no doubt, who sends him a cautious glance.

Granted, he’s aware that he probably looks strange. No, not “probably”. This is a suit of armor that belonged to the olden times, when warriors decorated their bodies in steel as testament to their power, their wealth. It’s from a time before Amestris was unified, before Siegfried the Conqueror brought the nation under a single flag, and so it is only natural for the people of the modern world to be so baffled by its visage.

It probably doesn’t help that pre-Amestrian armor tended to be stylized as fearsome in appearance. Metal-working came when alchemy did, but for the longest time, there was a tradition of decorating armor to resemble demons in order to inspire fear in one’s opponents.

On the streets in 1911, a little girl takes one look at him and shrieks.

How strange is it that Al feels itchy without any skin? He taps his fingers restlessly on countertop, trying to ignore the fact that some people are peering at him out the windows of a malt shop, wary, unwilling to leave the relative safety the establishments provide until he goes first. One couple, he notices out of the corner of his eye, ducks into the nearest shop after blanching at the sight of him. What, _exactly_ , do they think he’ll do?

Impatience and discomfort throb in him as the chef ladles chilli over freshly-cooked hotdogs. These people want him to leave and Al, frankly, does not want to spend much longer with their accusing eyes upon him. He hasn’t even done anything wrong, but it feels like he’s been tried and convicted, found guilty of violating some rule he didn’t even know existed. Or... maybe this whole thing is part of his overall sentence.

“To go, right?” inquires the chef. He’s a greasy looking man with a single bug-eye that narrows in disdain when it falls upon Al. Al does not have a mustache that looks like a smear of machine oil on his face or a pale scar that slices from forehead to chin like this man, but no one _stares_ at this man the way they stare at Al.

Hastily, Al nods, wincing internally at the horrible creaking noise the action elicits. This must be a sentence—a punishment. He broke the rules of alchemy and now he is being subjected to this... “torture” isn’t the right word, but it is anything but pleasant.

As the chef begins wrapping the chilli-dogs in white wax paper, Al catches movement from the corner of his eye. Slate gray uniform, gold buttons glinting in the light, shiny silver badge. The last time Al saw a city officer was when he was young, when he was small enough to duck behind his father’s legs to avoid the steely eyes that peered out from beneath the brim of a military-issued hat. In Risembool, the police were much friendlier, dressed in the same navy blues as the higher-ups, and they always had a pleasant smile upon their face as they passed, as much a part of the town as the rest of them, still people beneath their uniforms. But the police in the cities always struck Al as harsher, mechanical. With their grey uniforms and stiff posture, it seemed to him that they were cut out from the metal buildings themselves, sewn into a skin that vaguely resembled a person but actually weren’t.

This time, there is no one whose legs Al can duck behind. And even there were, it’s not like he’s small enough for that to work anymore.

“Excuse me, sir.” There is no politeness in the tone, only a stiff and cocky manner reflected in the jutted chin and narrowed eyes. It’s a method of asserting dominance, Al thinks to himself, like when the foxes on Yock Island showed their fangs even as they were backing away.

When Al turns to face him fully, the officer flinches not-so-subtly and lowers his hand. It ghosts over the holster of his gun. Somewhere, in a nonexistent stomach lost to the void, Al feels a vague sense nausea. “Er, um, yes?”

The officer’s adam’s apple bobs. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

Somehow, the absence where Al’s heartbeat should be aches. Is this what phantom pain is? “O-Ordering food?”

People are looking. Whispers flutter around the street. Eyes on him, burning. It brings on strange, tight feeling, like someone took Al’s soul and _twisted_.

A brown paper bag is set down on the counter with a too-loud crinkling that makes Al wince. The greasy cook casts the officer a curious look, but seems largely unaware of the agitation skittering around beneath Al’s armor—and why would he? _People_ aren’t supposed to be bound to— “Problem, officer?”

Some strange disconcertion prickles in Al, a low buzzing in the back of his mind, whispering in his thoughts the way people are whispering about him. They must be, they’re all staring, eyes dragging across him, he’s not supposed to feel anything but every gaze seems to rake across him like nails on a chalkboard—

“This guy bothering you?” The officer juts his chin out and Al flinches involuntarily. He’s not sure how it must look to the officer, because all Al knows is that his body creaks, but the man tenses again.

Pressure, or something like it, builds beneath steel plates. Al doesn’t know why, but he has a minor fear that the metal might just buckle and crumple.

“Only if he doesn’t pay,” replies the chef, clearly bored. Then he gives Al a pointed look.

Embarrassment crawls up to meet that itching prickle. As he fumbles around, Al’s limbs don’t feel attached to him. He feels strangely... not detached, because he is anchored to this vessel, but his vision shudders for a terrible fraction of a moment. He quickly locates the pouch of money he took with him, clumsy fingers quickly pulling out a wad of bills. No much, because Winry’s expenditures for Brother’s automail repair were costly, but fast food is cheap and so—

—and they are _staring_ at him why are they _staring_ at him what did he do _wrong_ —

(you tried to play god)

His inept hands shake as he sets the bills on the counter. The metal plates shudder. The officer is outright glaring, steel-grey gaze bright with something that you only ever see in an animal attempting to stand its ground against something bigger and more dangerous than itself. Only now that look is being pinned on him, fingers ghosting over the holster, because this officer looks at him and thinks _danger-threat-must-destroy_ and—

Al has a very sudden and very _powerful_ desire to _get the hell out of there_.

People are hiding from him. Hustling down the sidewalk at the sight of him. Staring, wide-eyed and afraid. They are  _scared of him_ and he hasn’t even done anything _wrong_. A chorus of  _run-get-away-too-many-eyes-run_  stirs to life beneath his not-skin.

“Keep the change,” he mumbles as he snatches up the paper bag. Immediately he is turning and hustling away as that chorus builds and builds and builds, rises to a fevered pitch.

Across the street, a couple of boys let out shouts. “Run or the monster’ll get you!” one laughs gleefully, treating fear like a game as though it will somehow protect them, but they called him—

—“monster”.

He hastens away. His legs are moving on autopilot, moving without his consent. He’s not entirely sure where they’re taking him, but he also can’t bring himself to wrest control back from this invisible force that has seized him. It feels like he’s watching, watching as this hollow thing is moving, as people glance at it wide-eyed and wary, because it scares them. He is watching as people part around him as though he might trample them, and his pace unconsciously quickens, ducks his head, and yet he is still watching, watching, watching—

Watching as the metal shifts, creaks and scrapes, jangles, too loud, bodies shouldn’t make this much noise, shouldn’t make people turn their heads to _stare_ at it.

It wasn’t this bad in Kaumafy. Why is this happening now, then? What’s different here? They were looking back then but it didn’t affect him like this, didn’t make him want to leap out of this body (not his never his) or duck out sight. He—he wants to curl up in a corner somewhere, escape all the eyes and the ache of pressure throbbing in him, he thinks he might burst what’s going on what is _happening_ to him—

“Mommy, Mommy!” cries a little girl. She plants her feet, ignoring her mother’s insistent tugging, and stares at him with wide eyes. Her hand is extended outward, her finger jabbed squarely in his direction—it feels like a spear being lauded at his heart. “ _Look_!”

Somehow, he ends up in an alley. There is no memory of how he transitioned from the crowded street to this dark place with cracked asphalt and broken bottles and heaving dumpsters. And suddenly his feet are rooted in place, that pressure in him growing icy cold, refusing to abate, swallowing him whole. No matter how much he screams at this body to _move_. Step forward, step back, raise an arm, twitch a finger— _something_. But this body is frozen, unmoving, he can’t will himself to so much as twitch.

Belatedly, he realizes that the steel plates are rattling. He’s _shaking_.

That pressure undulates through him, pins him in place. Something like an itch starts in him, a faint buzzing. His ears(?) rings. The sensation of eyes on him is still there but there’s no one here so why doesn’t he feel safe it’s hard to think—

Now more than ever, the absence of a heartbeat seems _deafening_. He feels dizzy beneath the rush of would-be adrenaline.

Whimpering, Al stands there, shaking, unable to comprehend why this is happening, what this even _is._  He’s trapped in the eye as the storm whirls around him but somehow he also is the storm itself it doesn’t make any sense there are still eyes and whispers but no one is here he wants to climb out of his skin why won’t it stop—

And then, just as suddenly as it came, it is gone. Al gasps as he stumbles forward, mobility suddenly regained. Now that the sensation is gone, he feels weirdly... flat, maybe, is the best term he can think of. Certainly not “calm”, because that word does not encompass this strange exhaustion, this desire to just collapse in a corner somewhere and listen to the sound of his heartbeat, as though to reassure himself that he’s still alive.

Except he sort of isn’t. Not fully, anyway. No heartbeat.

(you play god and this is what happens)

Al looks up and is surprised to find that the sun is already tipping from its zenith. That means— _Hours_ — When— He doesn’t _remember_ —

In that moment, more than anything, he wishes he had lungs to breathe, to take a steadying breath. But he has been denied even that simple comfort. The fast food has gone cold and soggy within the paper bag.

* * *

The motel they’re staying at is in a rundown part of the city. Not glossy and clean like the streets Al remembers from when they took a trip here—what, six years ago? It feels like a different lifetime.

It practically is a different lifetime. In a different lifetime, he wasn’t steel and panic bound up with a human soul, wouldn’t feel so thrown-off by the gazes of unimportant strangers that he’d feel the need to collapse in alleyways and sob like a child.

How strange it is that, at eleven years of age, you either feel older than you are or so much younger.

This part of town harbors trash laid openly in the streets, crumpled newspapers fluttering past like tumbleweeds. Dumpsters overflow with things that are best not dwelled upon. Neon spray paint dances across the buildings, which alternatively sport broken windows or are completely boarded up. Some of them have “condemned” slapped across the doors in big red letters. A few wiry trees wind out from the ground, scraggly and already leafless despite autumn still being in its relative infancy. Weeds overgrow from cracked sidewalks. Broken glass litters the road, winking in the sunlight like someone shattered a star across the asphalt. Alleyways lead off to somewhere dark with rustling in the depths of their shadows, as though the darkness gained a life of its own when no one was looking. He gets the distinct impression that whatever it is, it isn’t friendly. He hesitates to call it a “slum”, but there really isn’t a better word—occasionally, he’ll catch a dark face peering at him through a broken window, with wary ruddy eyes, before the curtains are suddenly pulled closed.

In the distance, he hears something rustle and crack. Al hustles along, vaguely conscious of an absence where his quickening heartbeat should be.

Wilting ivy is the first thing he sees. It threads itself up the side of a building that squat and crumbling, old enough to have existed back when the Warring States of the West existed in place of Amestris, still young and drunk on their own barbarity. Age has not been kind to this building in any measurable way—a majority of the shingles are rotted through, the window glass brown and warped. There is a sign atop that reads “OTEL”, with the missing _M_ discarded in the space between the building and its neighbor, propped up next to a dumpster spilling from the inside-out. It’s not a particularly comely abode, but the room fares are in the low hundreds and they need to scrimp at this point to make the most of Dad’s nest egg. Al knocks tentatively upon a door with no handle, only an empty hole in place one that gives you a perfect of the locking mechanism.

A single russet eye peers through the hole. Then there’s a click as the lock is deactivated and the door swings open. A squat old woman, white-haired and cinnamon-faced, greets him, her face sagging into a perpetual frown and a large mole sitting on her chin. He tenses instinctively, remembering people who saw him as something to be feared, but she only gives an approving nod.

“Mr. Armor,” she says, her accent so thick he can hardly make it out. It gives him a weird feeling to be referred to as “Mr. Armor”, but her Amestrian is heavily flawed, so he can forgive it.

“Hi, Mrs. Hayek.” He ducks his head in order to accommodate the doorframe. It isn’t just the outside that is rundown—there are water stains on the lobby walls and an exposed pipe in one corner that pumps out something that makes him grateful he doesn’t have a nose into a makeshift drain. A rug sprawled on the ground is covered in so many stains he can’t tell what color it was originally. The ceiling plaster is crumbling, the lights flickering as though they don’t trust themselves to stay lit. There isn’t even a potted plant to brighten up the lobby.

“Vent is broken,” she tells him, closing the door behind him. She clicks the lock back into place because there are bad people out in the streets. “You fix?”

“Oh, uh, sure.” The first night at the motel was paid for in coin, but the second and third have been paid for in repairs. It was a great relief to him when he found that, even in this state of semi-living, he can still perform alchemy. Something about it makes him feel... human, somehow. _Alive_. “Can I just take this food to my friends real quick?”

Though she grunts disagreeably, the old woman ultimately nods her assent.

Their room is one of dozens of doors that line a hallway off to the side of the lobby. Rusty indents in the wood mark where there was probably once metal numbers to mark room from room but have since gotten lost somewhere in the vortex of disrepair that has swallowed this place whole.

Hinges creak as Al opens the door. There are no keys or cards or anything, just a handle that’s this side of too-loose. A pair of beds are crammed into the room, too big for such a small space and rebelling against the walls with their thin, long frames. It makes it seem like you’ve stepped inside a garbage compactor, where you’re squeezed in from all sides, just waiting until you’ve been turned into a cube of waste.

Winry, who glances up from her work, has set up a temporary workstation on the bed nearest to the doorway. She’s brought out a foldable desk, upon which Brother’s arm—having been detached now that she’s confident it won’t injure him further—has been laid flat like a lab animal for dissection. Her tools form a loose ring around her, some of them the same weathered ones that she brought with her from Risembool, while others are newer and shinier purchases from within the city. A half-bottle of hydraulic fluid sits on the nightstand sandwiched between the two beds, the white cap hastily screwed on so that it’s a touch crooked. Next to it is a smaller bottle that reads “machine oil” and specifies that it is a half-liter bottle, though it is opaque and does not give away how much of its contents remain. Grease smudges the fingers of Winry’s work gloves, and her hair has been pulled back by a worn green bandanna. Her overalls are smattered in oil, the pocket at the chest drooping beneath the weight of nuts and bolts and screws that have been stuffed in it for convenience’s sake.

On the other bed...

Its frame is pressed against the far wall, allowing light to spill through the muddied glass of the window. It casts a forlorn sepia overture across Brother’s listless form, face to the wall and back to the world. His hair is down, spilling off the sheets and dripping off the bed unrestrained. The pillow has been abandoned on the floor, the coat he was so proud of last week abandoned to the end of the mattress. His empty shoulder faces the air, and without it, Al finds himself thinking that his older brother looks smaller than he’s looked in a long time.

(Ed hasn’t moved from that spot in the last three days.)

“I’m back,” he announces as he steps inside, then closes the door behind him. There are dark patches in the corners. The curtains are in tatters. He has no idea what caused those stains on the carpet, only that they are numerous and multicolored, the result of various things that he would rather not guess at. It’s a really poor place, honestly, but it’s cheap and the beds are softer than the street corner. “I brought food.”

Grinning, Winry strips her gloves off. She has dark bags under her eyes from sleepless nights, tossing and turning and mumbling in her sleep. Her smile is false, a plastic imprint stamped across her face. Al remembers the bitter way she wept after they were found in Majhal’s lab by Klaus’s parents and ushered into relative safety.

“It smells _delicious_.” Her eyes are red. From sleeplessness or crying, Al doesn’t know. He’s too scared to ask. “Doesn’t it, Ed?”

Brother doesn’t even lift his head.

“They’re chilli-dogs.” Al passes the baggie over to Winry, who eagerly snatches it up and starts rooting around through it. She pulls out a pad of napkins that she sets down next to her. “I hope that’s okay.”

“Are you kidding? I was _just_ craving something greasy.” There’s false cheer in Winry’s tone, but Al doesn’t comment. She pulls out a bundle, which she immediately unwraps. The greasy meat-mush has made the bun soggy and limp. She arches a brow, more surprised than off-put.

The memory of curling up the alley like a toddler afraid of the boogeyman makes him wince guiltily. “...uh. They’re kind of, um, cold...”

“Hey, greasy is greasy.” She takes an overenthusiastic bite. “ _Mmmm_. This is _fantastic_. Ed, you’ve _gotta_ try this.”

There’s a minute shift in Brother’s shoulders, then his legs curl a touch closer to his body. “M’fine.”

Well, that’s the first thing he’s said in quite a while. Al counts that as a victory, even a minor one.

“You should eat.” There’s very little space for Al to move around in, being as bulky as he is. He has to press against the wall just to get passed the end of the bed. “When was the last time you ate something, Brother?”

All he receives in response is a shrug. But Al knows it’s been hours, maybe a couple days, since his brother showed any interest in food. The bags under his eyes that Al has glimpsed are indicative of long hours spent lying awake, despite Ed’s refusal the leave the bed. Al’s metaphorical lungs prickle.

(the last time Brother acted like this—)

Huffing with feigned indignance, Winry sets her chilli-dog down on her work table and scoops up the automail arm. The metal plates, newly repaired, catch the light faintly. “Y’know what will make you feel better? Reattaching your newly-repaired arm!”

Ed grunts dismissively.

“C’mon! I even updated the cables so you’ll get some heightened mobility—even if it’s damaged!” She pauses for a moment, and a dark, threatening look passes across her face. The effect is mitigated by reddened eyes and the shadows beneath them. “But _don’t_ damage it. If you do, I’ll _stab_ you with my _screwdriver_.”

Usually, that would warrant a fervent defense on Brother’s part, and from there it would spark a playfully-furious argument. But Brother only makes a small noise of affirmation that, really, could just be a coincidence. Worry curls through Al’s empty body.

“...c’mon.” Winry slides off the bed and shuffles over until she’s standing over Brother. The arm is cradled in her hands like a newborn or something else equally precious. Closest to Al is the attachment part, the hole in the mechanism that allows it to connect to the port. He can see metal spokes lining the interior like teeth, and further inside is the nest of wires that attach to human nerves. “Just sit up so I can install it?”

A long, listless pause.

For one dreadful moment, Al thinks Ed is going to refuse. That he’s just going to lie there, forever, one-armed and not eating, not sleeping—and suddenly they are back at the Rockbell’s, one year ago, just days after the transmutation and before the lady colonel arrived. And that isn’t what he _wants_ , he doesn’t _want_ to see that same empty, heavy-eyed look on his brother’s face, dammit. The whole reason he even wanted to bring Dad back in the first place is so that Brother wouldn’t be eaten alive by the grief and the pain and the emptiness and now Al is watching it _all over again_ —

But then Brother shifts, the bedframe creaking. A spark of something bright, something Al dare not call “hope” just yet, goes through him.

With deliberate slowness, as though he’s rebelling against the idea of moving even as it claims him, Brother sits up. He has to use his remaining arm in order to do so, earning a grunt of effort, but the fact that he sits up at all is enough to make Al sigh in relief. Bandages are still wrapped thickly around Brother’s forehead, but these are bloodless, a recent dressing. Winry says that they can probably remove them soon. As he swings his legs around, Brother takes great pains to avoid looking at the coat drape over the bed’s end. Al wonders if he looks at its redness and thinks of Majhal’s blood. He knows that, when he looks at it, he keeps thinking about when they found Ed again at the Danforth’s house, shivering and blood-splattered and shirt muddied with traces of vomit that couldn’t be anyone’s but his own.

His head is bowed and his loose bangs play curtain, keeping Al from seeing his face. And maybe that’s for the best. He doesn’t think he’s ready to face that emptiness in Brother’s eyes again.

Winry’s lip twitches faintly with triumph and she settles down next to Brother. Al has never seen her work on automail before—he’s seen her draw up plans and tinker with things, winding gears and testing springs and connecting joints. But he’s never seen her attach anything to anyone. Never seen her hands work so methodically, easing wires together and coaxing metal to connect. He hadn’t been present when Brother’s automail was initially installed. It was always done when he wasn’t watching, distantly and behind closed doors.

Around the edge of Brother’s shirt, Al catches a large patch of shiny, dark pink scar tissue stretching across Ed’s collarbone. It looks nasty, gruesome almost. And people would probably stare at it the same way they began to stare at Al—no wonder Brother has started wearing long sleeves.

 _I did this._ He sees his younger self cracking open that fateful book, and he sees the jagged cut of flesh that framed his brother’s missing arm when he first came to in a body that wasn’t his. _I’m responsible for this._

A sudden sense of helplessness washes over Al. For a moment, he sees blood on the ground, sees blood on his too-large hands, red and thick and dripping, and none of it is his. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I’ve got it,” she replies breezily, not even looking up from her task.

She probably meant it as a reassurance, but it stings somehow. He looks away and studies the wall for a moment, trying to remember what he was thinking when he stumbled into the study and found Mom’s notebook, what was going on through his mind that made him justify human transmutation. It feels so distant, like it happened to another person, someone more stupid and foolhardy and arrogant.

Someone who wasn’t a suit of armor that people stared at. Someone who didn’t cower in alleyways against senseless fits of anxiety. Someone whose older brother wasn’t missing an arm and a leg.

After a moment, Winry pauses suddenly. “Okay, I’m gonna connect the nerves. Ready, Ed?”

Silently, Brother nods. His dispassionate gaze doesn’t stray from the door.

“One. Two—”

There is no “three”, only a faint click, a mere fraction of a second before Ed lets out a hiss of pain and his face contorts. Jaw clenched, brows furrowed, a scream half-stifled in the back of his throat. It’s the expression of someone trying to muffle their own agony.

Suddenly, he realizes why Brother was so reluctant to conduct the installation around him before. “Does... does it _hurt_?”

“Only a little,” replies Brother, which is perhaps the most he’s spoken in the last few days. His voice is hoarse from being bottled inside his throat for so long. With his flesh hand, he massages tenderly at the steel port and Al catches another glimpse of the ring of puckered, raw scar tissue. Al’s metaphorical heart clenches.

“It hurts a lot worse when you mess with the _inner wiring_.” This is, of course, Winry’s attempt to egg Brother on. She crosses her arms and sticks her nose up prissily. “From now on, no more transmuting anything internal! Just stick to the chassis, if you _must_ alchemize my masterpiece!”

Her efforts fall flat. “Okay.”

Pain flashes briefly across her face, but she is quick to bury it in playful anger. “How did you even _wreck_ it that badly, huh?”

“Told you. Transmuted the hydraulic fluid.”

“Uh huh.” She looks skeptical at that. Not playfully skeptical. Genuinely skeptical. “With what circle?”

That’s a good point, now that Al thinks about it. He has no memories of seeing an array that corresponds to heating and pressurizing dietholyene glycol anywhere in Majhal’s lab, or drawn on Brother’s automail. Maybe he just missed something? There _was_ a lot going on, after all...

Another long pause, even longer than the last. Brother tilts his head down to study his hands, almost as though he doesn’t recognize them.

Fresh worry springs in Al’s soul. “Brother?”

Slowly, Brother brings his hands up, and claps. Palm and palm, fingers aligned and pointing heavenward. For a fraction of a moment, Teacher’s visage is superimposed atop the image, a lone figure in a roaring storm as rain pounded against the earth and the banks of the river threatened to burst, an angel rebelling against nature’s wrath.

...are those blue sparks?

Brother lays a hand gingerly atop his steel wrist, and before Al’s eyes, the forearm plate crackles and lengthens. The edge becomes sharp, bladelike, as it extends past the hand into a gleaming point. When the light fades, a sword of some kind has formed over the arm, no circle required.

Logically, Al knows that he would be dizzy right now, if he were capable of it. Such a strange dissonance, between his body and his soul and the emotions that affect them. “H-How did you—”

“In the woods.” Brother’s voice is soft, but compelling nonetheless, and it’s enough to silence the questions swirling within Al. “Back in Bumble Hollow. When— the doll— I just... sort of panicked. And this happened. I...” He stops, suddenly, and for a moment, Al suddenly sees that unsettling light from a few days ago. Then Brother blinks and it’s gone. “...don’t know how. I... I just... can.”

For some reason, Al gets the distinct impression that Brother is hiding something.

Winry grabs Brother’s steel wrist in one hand and flips it over the examine the hand, baring the wrist joint to the ceiling. Awed, she brushes her thumb lightly over the edge of the blade. “...you really don’t need a circle.”

“No.” Ed smacks his steel hand with his flesh one, then touches his arm again. Blue sparks flash and Winry yelps, drawing back in alarm as the blade transforms back into its former shape. “Majhal saw me. That’s why he...”

_Why he took Brother captive._

Which led to—the sword. Blood. Klaus screaming. Winry shaking. Karin sobbing over a too-still body. Brother not talking or eating or sleeping or moving for three days straight.

 _One thing at a time_ , Al tells himself. The paper bag has been left on the bed, discarded despite the two chilli-dogs remaining. Trying to be as careful as he can, because this body is not sensitive to its own strength, he picks it up. Right now, Brother needs to eat something. “You know, it wasn’t your fault.”

Brother snorts loudly.

“It was an accident,” Al says as he delicately pulls a paper-wrapped morsel out from the bag, then sets the rest back down on the bed. Grease bleeds through the white wax paper and stains it an unappealing oily yellow, but food is food, even unhealthy food. He can almost imagine what it might smell like, even cold and soggy as it is. “No one could have known what would happen.”

“It still _happened_ ,” Brother retorts sourly.

Dexterity is long gone at this point, and it strikes Al as he attempts to unwrap the chilli-dog how quickly he’s lost faith in his own body. Not that this is _his_ body—this metal shell that makes people nervous, makes them stare and whisper and run away in fright—but if he squeezes too hard, the whole thing will be reduced to paste. Maybe that’s why people are so wary of him. “You were defending yourself.”

“Either it was an accident, or it was self-defense.” There is not so much a vacant hollowness in Brother’s eyes as he glares as there is a jaggedness, a fracturing in places there weren’t before. It looks like someone shattered a mirror, each shard reflecting the same image until there are thousands of copies staring back at you. “It can’t be both.”

An answer to this eludes Al at the moment, so he offers a chilli-dog instead. Food always makes you feel better, doesn’t it? “You need to eat.”

Disbelief claims Brother for a moment, his eyes narrowing into a topaz glare. Another moment passes in which disbelief transforms into disgust. He wrinkles his nose at the chilli-dog as though it personally offends him. “...I’ll pass.”

“Please?” It really doesn’t look all that appetizing anymore, all soggy and cold. Still, anything would do.

“Al.”

“You really should eat, Ed,” Winry interjects, not unkindly.

“I’m not _hungry_.”

“Eat anyway.”

“I said no.”

“Brother, _please_ —”

“I. Don’t. Want it!” Brother’s hand swipes through the air and there is a ferocious clang of metal against metal.

Before Al can react, the chili-dog is tumbling through the air. It splatters across the ground, meat-paste spilling out everywhere, dark red and viscous. It almost looks like a bloodstain—chunkier, as though it congealed midair, but still enough for chilling remembrance to spring up.

“It’s not going to change _anything_!” The breakage in Brother’s shout is vicious. “A man is dead! _Dead_ , Al! How am I supposed to eat and pretend everything’s fucking okay?”

Just the sight of the mess is unnerving, brings back memories that are better left repressed. Twisted bones, putrid flesh, pulsing innards—

_Stop._

Shaking himself, Al snatches up the pad of napkins and then kneels down the examine the damage. Thankfully, most of the chilli was containing within the wrapper, so there is very little that leaked out, spilled all over the floor in a brick-colored smear. Grease dribbles from the edge in oily rivulets. He presses a napkin flat over the mess, watching dumbly as the white paper quickly stains orange-red.

Contents spilling out from the container—he thinks back to the alleyway and wanting to claw himself free of the metal.

He doesn’t want to feel like that. He doesn’t. Call him selfish, but he wants things to go back to the way they were before. He wants—

He wants...

But he looks up at his brother, at the hollowness in his gaze, and something in him pangs.

(wanting won’t make it so)

“...should we just go home then?”

“What?” Brother asks, hoarse.

“Should we just go home?” The metal of his armored body makes a horrible creaking sound as he begins to scoop up the mess, wadding it in a meat-paper ball that ends up smearing all over his massive leather palm. There’s no trashcan in the room, only in the front lobby, so the mess will have to just sit here, collecting mold until it can be properly discarded. “I mean... the whole _reason_ we left Risembool in the first place was to— to— _do_ something about this. And, well... we’re not really _doing_ that anymore.”

“Al,” Winry intones gently. Comforting.

“I’m just _saying_.” Frustration sparks inside him, bright and fierce like firecrackers snapping at the sidewalk. The napkins really aren’t helping. Or maybe it’s him and his clumsy fingers. Stupid—clumsy—hiding in alleyways— “We’re just... _sitting_ here, burning through our savings, and not doing _anything_ productive! And what happened _sucks_ — But, I just—I don’t know! If we _stand still_ , then...”

A creak of the bedframe sounds above him. Winry settles next to him, tugging one napkin from his hand and starting to blot at the stain. The white paper comes away rust-colored, almost like tending to an open wound. That thought is vaguely sickening, except he doesn’t have a stomach with which to feel nausea, so he’s not quite sure where that leaves him.

It hits Al, quite suddenly, that it’s going to end up staining, the red-brown chilli sauce joining the rainbow of spots all over the carpet, permanently stagnant. For some reason, that bothers him immensely. There must be a way to scrub it out, to erase all evidence that they ever crash-landed in this place. Why—

He looks up to see Brother’s eyes on him, golden and vacant, and just looking at the exposed metal plating of the automail is somehow worse than seeing the stain—the stain that _bothers_ him for reasons even he doesn’t understand.

Above him, the ceiling is crumbling plaster. It’s like something landed hard overhead and they’re just waiting for it to fall through, crash in front of them. “And we’ll just be stuck here... like this.”

 _Forever_.

(like a stain in the carpet)

The ensuing pause is too long to be reassuring. Shame curls in Al, has him lowering his head in embarrassment, trying to ignore Winry’s and Brother’s gazes on him (please stop looking please stop looking please please please—). But... ugh! Despair is this sticky, tarlike trap that snags you by the ankles, boils against your skin as you sink in faster than you can even realize what’s happening. The plain blots out your awareness and before you know it—before you know it is just blackness, heat and ooze filling your lungs, your mouth, your throat. It happened with Dad and if that happens again, if they lose themselves to this lowness that could swallow them up wholly, then—

Then who _knows_ what Al will do?

Last time he enshrouded himself in the ultimate taboo, like a child clinging to a security blanket, burying themselves in their artificial comfort as they seek to shield themselves from the boogeyman. Only the boogeyman then was a reality where they could move on, continue to live as they were—they had done such a good job of shutting out that it had been eliminated entirely.

Well. Not entirely true. Brother—he can still live on. His body is flesh and he has a heart that beats loud against his ribs. It’s Al who can’t live in the ruins of the aftermath, or so Brother has convinced himself.

But Al would be alright. He could... _learn_ to live like this. He could. He _would._

He’d do _anything_ to rid that hollowness from Ed’s eyes.

Even... if it meant staying like this forever...

( _except he doesn’t want to, he’s selfish and aches to touch things again, to eat and sleep and feel like a **person** again—and isn’t that just horrible, forcing your brother to clean up your mess because he’s older and you don’t know how—_ )

Suddenly, the click of Ed’s automail knee sounds and there’s a rustle of fabric. Al looks up to see a sulfur-bright burning in his brother’s eyes. “You’re right.”

And then Brother is on his feet, stepping into his shoes and shoving his steel arm through one sleeve of his jacket. His hair is still down and there are still bandages around his forehead, but it doesn’t make him look as small as it did before. Not with the way his shoulders are squared as though braced for impact, ready to heft some enormous weight upon them, even if it means risking the chance of being crushed beneath it.

“I-I am?” Al isn’t sure what to make of this. Brother is, by definition, stubborn beyond all reason. It should _not_ be this easy to have convinced him.

“Between the five libraries in East City alone,” explains Brother as he pulls out a hair tie and begins braiding his hair back—with surprising deftness, considering his gloves have been lost at some point, “there has to be something on the Philosopher’s Stone, even with the military allocating the majority of alchemy records.”

Oh. Wait— This— Isn’t what Al meant. “Um, Brother—”

“We’ve got a lead.” Brother pulls out a pair of gloves from seemingly nowhere and slips them on. Winry rises to her feet, looking as though to object, but he brushes past her. “It’d be stupid to stop now.”

(but don’t jump back in you idiot you need to wait until the wax hardens before you take off again)

“Ed,” Winry starts, “don’t you think we should—”

Just as Al finds it in him to stand up again, Brother is already rushing past in a whirl of scarlet and black and gold. The door crashes shut before he can even find the coherency to raise an objection.

“...so we’re _not_ going to talk about your miraculous ability to perform the circle-less transmutation.” Winry huffs and falls back against the mattress. It creaks faintly beneath her weight, old steel springs protesting at a human presence. “Sure. Okay. Great.”

Struggling beneath another wave of helplessness, Al looks down at his hands. His large, leather, useless hands. If he had been able to comfort Brother the first time—if they had been able to comfort each other—then maybe he wouldn’t have ended up like this. _They_ wouldn’t have ended up like this. “[Why can’t I ever get _through_ to him properly?]”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Sighing, he lowers himself back to the ground. The chilli is definitely going to stain and there’s nothing that can be done about it. “Just musing how my brother is an idiot.”

All they can do at this point is move forward.

(what a selfish person he is)

* * *

There is a story about how Amestris was founded.

Before it was one unified country, the land known as the Warring States of the West was divided into an estimated thirteen territories. There were other tribes scattered about, but these main thirteen were the most powerful, and back then power was measured more in sheer might than in innovation or wealth.

Cardinal among the tribes was the Vashti, or so they were called. Tall and proud, rarely defeated, the central power of the Warring States was located in the area that modern-day Central City now occupies, ironically enough. (Forever and always, that part of the country will be its capital, its focal point, its epicenter.) In the far east, where East City now lays, existed the miniscule tribe of the Esther, who were weakest among the thirteen, threatened to extinction by their crude weaponry and primitive battle strategies, or so the historical accounts say. With the balance of power ever-shifting in Esther’s favor, it seemed as though the number of ruling tribes would be reduced to a mere twelve.

This is when alchemy came to Amestris.

Arriving from with the dust of Xerxes’s fall clinging to his (or her, in one account) robes, the Philosopher of the East emerged from the desert with all the glory and golden splendor of God. The Esther were quick to proclaim such, bowing down before the enigmatic and frightening power wielded by Xerxean hands. Alchemy, it was called then, for there was no other name for it. Today scholars deign to call it “yliastry”, because then it is something foreign and strange, where Amestrian alchemy is the mighty standard.

Though its name was hardly important at the time. What really mattered was that the technique was passed on, the Philosopher notoriously scrupulous about picking students but taking them regardless. The most notable to gain the Philosopher’s favor was a young warrior named Siegfried. His background remains ambiguous, a hotly-debated source of speculation—some historians guessed he might have been the chief’s son, others that he was an impoverished orphan. Either way, Siegfried managed to charm himself into the alchemist’s good graces, earning him the knowledge of alchemy that allowed him to lead his tribe to victory against the attacking Vashti.

It’s kind of fitting, in a strange way, that alchemy in Amestris was first used as a weapon. But regardless of the precedent it set, Siegfried went on to annex the other territories beneath the rule of his own tribe, unifying them under a single banner. Though historically known more as a warrior than he was an alchemist, Siegfried the Conqueror—as he then became known, a rather fitting moniker—is still valued with the same reverence of other such early alchemists like the Philosopher of the East and the great Hermes Trismegitus.

This library, said to have been constructed upon his rumored birthplace, is named in his honor, with a great bronze statue of his likeness poised atop a fountain pedestal for emphasis out front. And though Siegfried Eastern Library is not of the intellectual pinnacle as the Central Branch libraries, the ones so coveted by State Alchemists that they trade their souls for silver pocket watches, is it still a marvellously impressive establishment. Six enormous floors, each one sporting over five hundred bookshelves carved from a type of wood that is expensive just to _look_ at. An entire forest of spines and volumes, exquisite leather that makes you want to run your hands over them until your palms are raw. The fragrance of parchment thick enough in the air to choke, to flood your lungs so completely that it engrains itself into your alveoli. Historic murals spread across the walls like someone transplanted a dreamscape onto the surface, all drawn in whimsically vivid hues. It is a true reservoir of knowledge, a watering hole for intellectuals to drink deeply and heartily of past generation’s accumulated lives. It is also the only library in all of Amestris in which the military hasn’t stolen from its sacred shelves for their personal stores.

Here, alchemy is as easily accessible as a cook book. If ever a civilian desired to learn about alchemy, be it a rare piece or something as simple as the beginner’s guide, then this was the place to look. Alchemy is the foundation of this structure—four hundred years’ worth of scientific advancement can be tracked to the letter, from Amestris’s birth to the present day.

Which is why it makes _no fucking sense_ why Ed can’t find a _single fucking thing_ on the _fucking Philosopher’s Stone_.

He slams another volume closed, only to wince a second later. Dad always tried to impart the sanctity of books, called them something to respect almost as deeply as human life. Exaggeration though it may have been, it still stuck to this day, so frustration or not, Ed shouldn’t be slamming books.

But there is _nothing_ on the Philosopher’s Stone—nothing _substantial_ , anyway. Mostly rumors, baseless and fantastic, and speculations. Educated guesses, but no concrete evidence, no instructions on how to obtain one, construct one, how to grasp it firm and tactile in human hands. There’s an entire floor on alchemy in this massive temple of knowledge, yet its patrons had not stocked it with the single piece of the information Ed is seeking.

It doesn’t make _sense_.

Heaving a sigh, Ed sets the book back down. It is one of four dozen titles he’s pulled off the shelves, hoping for some clue, some connection—catalysts, yliastry, arcana*, _anything_.

The government had agreed, almost immediately after Siegfried Eastern was built and christened after Amestris’s beloved founder, that this would be the _one_ library they not pluck titles from. Anything that hit the shelves of this library was not censored and or rescinded. And on-paper, that enforcement was absolute.

Of course, on-paper, Auntie and Uncle are also dead, so...

When books are published and printed en mass for public distribution, they’re usually filtered through library systems. The government runs the libraries, funds them, maintains them. Right now, the government is in the hands of the military. There’s a chance that they might intercept—

“[Damn.]” Ed sets the book in his hands atop the nearest pile. All the covers are leather, darkly colored, some dyed with brighter pigments like maroon or hunter green, but even haphazardly piled, they look exquisite. “[Granny’s anti-military shit is rubbin’ off on me.]”

Still, if the military _did_ decide that the Philosopher’s Stone, and any research on it, was not meant for civilian hands, then the chances of him being able to definitively research it were slim at best.

But Majhal said that Dad had researched it, or at least had been able to in the past. So there must be _something_ out there.

 _We could always go back and look at Dad’s research notes..._ But Ed didn’t want to do that. That feels too much like disturbing his _grave._

Dammit.

“That’s a mighty forlorn expression.”

He glances up. A friendly-faced librarian with a corporal’s epaulets and a pile of books cradled in her arms peers at Ed in mild intrigue. Ed wrinkles his nose, aware that he is something of an attention-catching specimen—between his awesome coat and dark attire, the bandages on his head—well, _not_ attracting attention at this point would be unusual.

“Can’t find what I’m looking for,” he mutters, slumping in his seat. Even the chairs and tables are made of dark, polished wood. He feels kind of dingy sitting here, like he should have worn something more formal.

This causes the librarian to quirk a brow. “ _Really_? In _this_ library?”

Something about her tone makes him strangely embarrassed. Ears warming, he glances away, dropping his chin into his hand.

“Well, that sucks,” says the librarian. Her tone implies consolation, but her words don’t match. Too dismissive. “Have you tried any of the other libraries?”

Wordlessly, Ed side-eyes her, because most of the other libraries have restrictions on the alchemic material that is housed within their sacred walls. Only the silver pocket watch of military dogs can grant access to secrets that lie within the garden.

If she senses his displeasure, or the reasons for it, she does nothing more than cluck her tongue. “You could always try a bookstore.”

Bookstores are hit and miss. Everyone knows this. “I’m looking for an _alchemy_ book.”

That makes her wince. “Oof. Then I suggest you either pull some strings with a State Alchemist or just give up.”

The only State Alchemist that Ed knows is the lieutenant-colonel with the scary eyes. Something Hawkeye. And even if he did contact her, why the _hell_ would she help him? The chances that she would even remember some random kid—even under such memorable circumstances—is slim at best.

So his only other option, according to the librarian, is to give up. Which is _not_ happening.

Before he can retort something snarky, the librarian departs. He watches with a growl of annoyance building in the back of his windpipe as her brown bob vanishes amongst the forest of shelves.

While the books are not to blame for their relative uselessness, Ed glares at them regardless. Give up. If he gives up, then Al is stuck forever in an unfeeling metal shell. Giving up means—means risking a chance of the “rejection” that Majhal, the fucking psycho, was talking about. Like hell Ed is going to gamble with his little brother’s life.

( _didn’t you do that in the first place—_ )

Fucking hell. He’s already wasted three days.

A mural of Siegfried the Conqueror adorns the ceiling, whimsical in its antiquity and rife with legend, mythos and mystery blended together in a mighty display of artistic prowess. The depiction places crude transmutation circles upon the blade of Siegfried’s sword, pointed ahead in a universal symbol of “charge!” while an army roils behind him like the tide. In the center of the mural is a depiction of Amestris’s symbol, the dragon with its looping tail and roaring jaws, a garland arcing beneath it in a grim smile, the four-pointed lattice spinning around it in an endless loop.

It’s the same relief found upon the state-issued pocket watch.

Something sparks in Ed, then, as he stares at this symbol that once united a nation. Like something clicking into place, a sudden epiphany that strikes deeply and completely, electrifies every nerve. He wonders how he could have possibly missed it in the first place.

The solution is quite simple, really.

Now, it is a _crazy_ idea. Half-baked and reckless, thrumming wildly through his veins.

But he’s Xerxean, a descendant of the nation that  _invented_ alchemy, and transmutation circles no longer bind him to white chalk matrixes. And he survived where most would not have, created a successful soul-bond where they are apparently difficult. He stumbled into Truth’s Hall, and while he did not come out unscathed, he is still breathing, still living, and maybe even stronger for it (maybe).

Well...  _anything_ is possible at thing point.

Before he can second-guess himself, Ed leaps out of his feet, new life breathed into his weary bones. The shelves unfold before him like someone opening the door to a secret world, and his gaze flies over title after title after title. When he finds the one he seeks, a grin breaks across his face—it is the first in a while now.

He pulls it out, slow and reverent. As he holds, he swears it has all the weight of the world wrought in its ink-adorned pages. He cracks it open, reads. Inhales as though the fragrance of parchment is salvation.

In embossed gold lettering, the title reads,  _A Walk Through Human Advancement: The History and Role of State Alchemists in Amestris_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terminology:  
> Arcana = a term for primeval alchemy. Considered extremely crude and defunct by the current system.
> 
> If you thought I was letting these guys off easily, then _boy_ were you wrong. Be prepared for angst galore, man. I love me some tortured characters. And fair warning, I have also developed a taste for Al-angst. I mean, it's a little tricky writing strong emotions like anxiety without physical sensation, but I hope I did an okay job regardless.
> 
> This chapter is not quite filler so much as it an arc-welding bit, but it kind of reads that way, doesn't it? On the other hand, character-development and world-building! I fucking _love_ world building.
> 
> If you have any questions or need clarifications, please feel free to ask! Constructive criticism is also open as well!
> 
> Sincerely,  
> The Immortal Moon


	16. To Serve and Protect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Uh.” He planned a speech, planned exactly what he was going to say, but it’s fled his memory with reckless abandon and left his mouth dry as the Great Desert. The point, Ed. Get to the point. “I—I’m calling because... oh, _hell_ —I wanted to ask about the State Alchemist program.”

_“We run carelessly to the precipice, after we have put something before us to prevent us seeing it.”_  
—Blaise Pascal

 

_~East City, 1911_

There’s a click, and Ed, cradling the handset in one hand, is filled with relief. The receiver leaves a cold metal kiss against his cheek.

“Hello,” comes the voice on the other end. It’s bright and perky, and Ed’s relief stutters, shrivels into exasperation. This is not the voice he’s anticipating—there’s nothing tempered or curt about it. Nothing like the voice he remembers from last year, burning eyes and bladed words that could strike through the depths of despair. “This is Central Command. How can I help you?”

For a moment, he feels a flicker of surprise. His initial call had been directed towards Eastern Command, operating under the assumption that the desired recipient was stationed somewhere in the East State, but for the last couple hours, his call has bounced from East City to New Optain and every eastern base he could name. Even some he couldn’t. It wouldn’t surprise him that the receptionists finally got fed up enough to just send him straight to the capital, both because of the resources and for the fact that they wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore. Ed would probably do the same thing, in their position. At this point, he’s half-convinced that the bureaucrats running the East State are purposefully incompetent, messing around just for the sake of shits and giggles and wasting tax dollars. What a country they live in.

“Well,” Ed starts carefully, trying to keep his tone light and not let show the annoyance simmering beneath his skin, “you could _start_ by putting me in contact with Lieutenant Colonel Riza Hawkeye.”

“I’m sorry?” The woman on the other end sounds a touch surprised, but she’s great at maintaining her composure, Ed will give her that. “You said _Lieutenant_ Colonel Hawkeye?”

Something about the way she says that makes him pause, something like hesitation twisting in the pit of his stomach. “That a problem?”

“No,” replies the woman quickly. Then, more pleasantly, “One moment, please.”

“What? No, wait—”

 _Click_.

Cue the hold music.

Ed curses loudly in Xerxean.

The sun is sinking low in the sky, drooping behind the high-stretching buildings of the East City skyline, so that everything is outlines starkly in dark silhouettes. It’s not low enough to be considered sunset, not low enough for the sky to start deepening in color and the horizon to blaze, but it’s enough to hustle people along. Around this time is when people get off work, so there’s people bustling past and traffic cluttering the streets as everyone rushes back home after a long, exhausting day. He’s aware that there are eyes on him and his fit, but he’s so done with being bounced around from bureaucrat to bureaucrat, from bumbling private to clueless corporal to airheaded secretary. How hard it is to by _one_ lady colonel? “Riza Hawkeye” doesn’t strike him as a particularly common name.

They better fucking _hurry up_. Al and Winry are probably wondering where he is right now.

The phonebooth is hot in the claustrophobic way, heat crackling and stifling like a pillow over your face. The sun’s rays are amplified by the glass, leaving him to roast like an a— _not an ant!_ —beneath a magnifying glass. He’d consider opening the door, but that might invite people to line up, and god knows how much longer this call is going to last. He’s long since started measuring time by how many coins he has to feed in the slot. So far, over two-thousand cenz has been devoured.

Another click sounds. Resignedly, Ed raises the handset to his ear, expecting another bright, clueless person with absolutely no knowledge _whatsoever_ who will transfer him _again_ —

“Hello?”

—except the voice that speaks strikes him, tempered like steel and firm in a way the last twenty voices haven’t been. There’s a quality there, something commanding about it. He knows, almost immediately, that this voice belongs to someone with stars on their shoulders and enough experience to support them.

“Hi.” Ed is not intimidated. He’s not. “Is this Lieutenant Colonel Hawkeye?”

“This is Colonel Hawkeye,” replies the voice smoothly. The annoyance lacing the word “colonel” gives him the impression that he is not the first person to make this mistake and that it’s happened enough to inspire displeasure. Based on the year-long gap, it probably isn’t an overly-recent promotion.

Maybe that’s why there was so much confusion. Not only did he look for her in East Command when she was based in Central, but he also used the wrong rank. Maybe the government isn’t useless after all. “Uh, this is Ed.”

“...who?”

Right, right. It’s been a year. She’s probably put him far from her mind—and he kind of wouldn’t blame her, considering... yeah. “Edward Hohenheim. Um. Ma’am?”

No response.

He peers inquisitively into the receiver. Crap, should he have said “miss” instead? Did he insult her? Did they get cut _off_? “Uh, hello?”

“Hohenheim?” she repeats, meticulously enunciating each syllable.

A thrill of nerves goes through him. There’s something dark in the undercurrent of her tone. He does not flash back to Dublith and Yock Island, nope, not him. No mortal terror here! “From Risembool? We, uh, met last year?”

“I know who you are.” Her tone is bladed, sharp with a hidden warning he doesn’t quite understand. His pulse thrums in his throat as he recalls those burning eyes. “Why are you calling me?”

“Uh.” He planned a speech, planned exactly what he was going to say, but it’s fled his memory with reckless abandon and left his mouth dry as the Great Desert. The point, Ed. Get to the to the point. “I—I’m calling because... oh, _hell_ —I wanted to ask about the State Alchemist program.”

More silence. There’s a crackle over the line.

This does not bode well. Ed swallows dryly. “Specifically, I wanted to ask about the application process.”

Even more silence. Dread stirs in the pit of his stomach. They better not have been cut off. They better not have been—

“I can tell you,” says the colonel’s voice suddenly, startling him deeply, “that the military does not recruit children.”

“Okay, but—”

Dial tone.

...

Did she...?

...she hung up on him.

She _hung up_ on him.

All that time and money—and she _hung up on him!_

Edward Hohenheim repeatedly bangs the side of the handset against the cradle with a scream.

* * *

_~Central Command_

A little boy with a gun. The trigger is too big for his fingers, his thumb dwarfed by it. His little brown hand trembles. She peers down the barrel, down the dark infinity of it. The abyss stares coldly back.

His hands aren’t the only ones trembling. _Don’t make me do this—_

The safety is clicked off. Sweat gathers in the spaces between her fingers. Her gloves are hot and they feel like her hands are being strangled by them.

His eyes are wide with fear. Crimson red, curtained by messy white bangs. His face is soft and round, baby fat in his cheeks and chin. Sweat drips in rivulets down his cinnamon neck.

_You’re just a child. I don’t want to—_

He squeezes the trigger. She snaps.

**fire**

“Colonel?”

Riza wakes with a jolt. Her nerves are thrumming and every instinct in her is screaming. She smells smoke and heat and there are gunshots around the corner—

No. The grey-blue color scheme of her office gradually seeps into her awareness, blots out the burn of desert air. Her desk of solid brown walnut wood that glimmers from its recent lacquering. Her dull cerulean rug, mildly pricey and sprawled out over the floor to keep the space from looking bare. A slow-spinning ceiling fan that is tilted on one side due to some bad wiring. The curving lamp on her desk with the plastic green lampshade over a long, cylindrical bulb and burnished base. The phone, lacquered cedarwood with brass accents, the polished dialing-wheel glinting faintly. Files and papers are stacked neatly to her left, fountain pens aligned between an inkwell and a jar of whiteout. There’s a dish of paperclips next to the lamp, a chaos of metal blended in with brighter, less professional colors like red and blue and green. Light slowly suffuses across the floor, marking the cross-pattern of the windows.

She frowns. Blinks. There’s a grimy, crusty sensation in her eyes and a terrible taste in her mouth. The warm, dark allure of coffee wafts in from the distance, making itself known beneath the overpowering stench of smoke.

Which is coming from Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc, a cigarette lit between his teeth. He peers at her curiously, a single brow arched. There’s nothing judgemental about his expression, just pleasantly bemused, as though he’s come across a particular oddity.

“Lieutenant Havoc,” she says smoothly, in an attempt to conserve whatever dignity she has. Her uniform is rumpled, she realizes as she smooths out her sleeves. Her mouth tastes foul with morning breath. She’s sure her hair is a mess. “Good morning.”

“Morning, colonel.” Havoc blinks at her. He looks like he’s almost wishing he brought a camera but is also glad he didn’t, just so he wouldn’t have to face her wrath. After working with her for the last year and a half, he’s well aware that she does not allow any banter concerning her appearance. It’s disrespectful. “If I may ask... _how_ early did you come into work today?”

...it would appear as though she never actually left. She adjusts her uniform, straightens out the lanyard and the epaulets so that everyone can see her status as a full colonel. “You may not.”

Movement flashes beyond the door of her office. She looks over just in time to see Second Lieutenant Heymans Breda and Sergeant Kain Fuery arrive, engrossed in a particularly avid conversation. Breda has been here for close to eight months now, while Fuery has been transferred to her command just last week. More likely than not, Breda is explaining to the other man exactly how things work around here, having taken on a sort mentoring role that both surprises and pleases her. It’s nice to see the team working as, well, a team.

Breda sees something that directs his attention away from Fuery and he gapes. “What the _hell_ , Mustang? How early did you get here?”

Intrigued by the commotion, Havoc meanders over to the main office. Riza combs her hands through her hair, which is easily managed by virtue of its shortness. She looks at the stack of files again.

“At ease, sergeant,” comes Mustang’s voice. He’s very casual, Mustang. Cool, charismatic, very much a people person. “I’m not giving you orders, I’m offering you coffee. No need to salute.”

Awkwardly, Fuery lowers his arm. “Er, yes sir.”

The last thing she remembers signing is something involving the tax returns and the financials of the entire office. She got as far as office supplies before she got that—phone call, which she would _rather not think about_ , thank you. And then there was the brief excitement outside her office, and then... Now. Ahem.

But all the forms are filled out. Everything from arrest warrants that needed verification to the mission report that was delivered in the wee hours of the night to the paperwork pertaining to the meeting she had yesterday. Her signature is neatly scrawled across the line at the bottom of things she doesn’t remember even reading, much less filling out.

“Good morning, colonel.” Mustang fills the doorway with his cleanly pressed uniform, his effortlessly windswept hair. He doesn’t look like someone who came in early, much less woke up before the sun rose. In each gloved hand, he sports a steaming ceramic mug. “I trust you slept well?”

“Lieutenant Mustang.” She snaps the file in her hand closed and sets it down atop the pile. The pile which, to her memory, was only half this height—the other half was on the opposite side of her desk and designated incomplete. “I hope you realize that forgery is a serious crime.”

He blinks, unperturbed. His smile is as white and lovely as the crescent moon. “Of course, sir.”

“Which is why I _very_ much hope you didn’t fake my signature on half of these documents.” She walks up to him and looks at him dead in the eye. She has to incline her chin up a little to meet his gaze, his eyes dark and fathomless and giving away nothing. “You could be court-martialed.”

“I would never,” he assures her smoothly. She almost believes him.

Keyword: almost. “Please get me copies of all the documents you filled out in my stead. I’d rather they be done properly.”

“If you can tell the forgeries from the genuine, I would be happy to, sir.” He holds out a mug. The steam wafts off in in a white curl. “Coffee?”

...unbelievable.

Sighing irritably, she accepts it and takes a long, slow sip. It slides down her throat, hot and thick, settles warmly into her stomach. It’s dark roast, with two sugar and hazelnut creamer. Her favorite. Figures.

She brushes past him. Out in the main office area, Breda, Havoc, and Fuery are already setting up at their desks. Havoc taps the charred end of his cigarette into an ashtray on his desk, and blackened ash crumbles off with relative lethargy. Breda is straight to business, flipping through some personnel files with an intensity that is dulled by drowsiness. Fuery, buzzing with nervous energy, is busying himself with the assembly of his various communication devices. Very impressive. She’s glad she managed to snap him up when she did.

When Fuery notices her presence, he squeaks and leaps to his feet to salute. Breda snorts a laugh into his hand and Havoc winces sympathetically. Riza arches a brow and bobs her mug slightly in a casual gesture that suggests desisting. Awkwardly, Fuery turns to his senior colleagues, who both nod. Breda still looks particularly amused by the whole event. Sheepishly, Fuery settles back in his seat.

“As you all know, today is very important,” Riza announces. She’s grimy and gross and she needs a shower. Ugh. This is the last time she spends the night in her office. “We’ve received intelligence that the Eastern Liberation Front is planning to mount an attack on the Limited Express, #04840. As you know, this train is occupied by General Hakuro and his family, who have been traveling in the East State on vacation. Our priority is to make sure that the train pulls into the station safely, with minimal casualties—none, if possible.

“Breda, you coordinate with the security detail in the train station. Try to minimize civilian contact and spread out the officers without alarming anyone. _Be_ _discreet_.” Breda nods seriously, losing his prior amusement in the face of a mission with lives on the line. She takes a long, slow sip of coffee (damn it’s good! why does it have to be good?) before turning to Fuery. “Warrant Officer Falman and Major Hughes are currently acting as security detail on the train. Fuery, your job is to keep the lines of communications open. And make sure our line isn’t bugged.”

“Yes sir,” Fuery says. He makes a move to salute, but pauses halfway when Havoc shakes his head. Awkwardly, he lowers his hand again and turns to his machinery with newfound vigor born of embarrassment.

“Havoc.” The lanky lieutenant straightens at the sound of his name and does his best to look professional. It’s a losing battle, with the lit cigarette still filling the air with smoke. “First of all, lose the cigarette. It smells horrible and it’s bad for your lungs.”

Swiftly, Havoc does so. He knows _exactly_ what she’ll do otherwise.

“You’re to act as a runner between the two groups.” The smoke smell hasn’t dissipated quite yet, and she prays it does soon. She needs her mind clear today. “If any new information comes to light, you’re to convey it immediately, on both sides. Understood?”

“Yep,” he says chipperly. “I’m a messenger boy.”

“Information runner.”

“Same thing.” He only gets away with that because they have work to do. Havoc glances keenly over her shoulder, and Riza is vaguely aware of Mustang’s presence behind her. “Say, what’s Mustang doing?”

She glances over her shoulder at her adjutant, who flashes a cheeky smile, as though that will somehow absolve him of the fact that he has committed fraud using her name. It will not. Her eyes narrow. “Lieutenant Mustang will be managing our paperwork in the meantime.”

Ah, there it is. That delicious moment where the smirk falters. “Sorry?”

A flummoxed look seizes Fuery’s expression. Breda and Havoc, familiar with how the dynamics of the office by now, whoop excitedly and exchange hi-fives. Rather childish, but she’ll allow it.

It’s a _very_ good cup of coffee. It deserves a reward, doesn’t it? Yes. It does. She turns back to the rest of her team. “In _fact_ , Lieutenant Mustang has volunteered to do everyone’s paperwork for the next week.”

“Uh, _sir_.” From the corner of her eye, she can see nervousness fluttering across his face. “I don’t think that would be very _prudent_ —”

“Nonsense.” She throws him a practiced, minute smile over her shoulder. The distressed look he sends her is infinitely amusing. Perhaps now he’ll think twice before committing fraud. “Between your diligence and handwriting, it’s as if I’ll be doing the reports _myself_.”

“You’re the best, Mustang,” cheers Havoc. Breda laughs and Fuery blinks.

Mustang groans miserably.

Riza sips her coffee and hides a wry smile behind the rim of the mug. It’s almost enough to make her forget about yesterday’s phone call.

She frowns into her mug at the memory. _Joining the military... the hell is that boy thinking?_

* * *

_~Limited Express, Passenger Car 4_

The heat comes mostly from having too many people packed into one place—in this case, the train car. Winry fans herself one-handedly, vaguely certain that her bangs are plastered to her face at this point. The windows aren’t clouded with condensation—but it feels like they should be.

“Remind me why we had to hop on the first train to Central?” she grumbles miserably. The heat is already insufferable, people are talking loudly, it’s _way_ too early, the seats are uncomfortable, and they’ve _just_ pulled out from the station. She can’t imagine spending _hours_ here.

Ed is sprawled out lazily on the seat across from her, chin propped on his fist and peering idly out at the sprawling countryside. It’s clear that the heat is affecting him too, because he’s thrown his coat over his suitcase at his side and popped his jacket open. The metal plating of his automail wrist glimmers in the early morning sun, peeking out between his long sleeves and his fresh set of white gloves. Sweat beads on his forehead and glistens across his collarbone. His braid is half-done, which she attributes to the fact that they had to get up extra early, because for some reason, he decided to buy train tickets without either of their consent.

“Told you,” he replies smoothly, eyes half-lidded. There’s hair clinging to his cheeks. “Got a lead.”

“What kind of lead?” Al asks at Winry’s side. Without a flesh body, he’s unbothered by the early hour or the heat, instead looking chipperly enthusiastic by the whole situation. There’s eagerness in how he peers out the window and examines the scenery. If only she weren’t so tired, maybe she could enjoy it to.

A flicker of something dark and sharp flashes across Ed’s face, but he doesn’t turn away from the window as he smirks. “Oh, _y’know_. The _usual_ kind.”

That look in his eye is one she is all-too-familiar with. It is one she associates with spiders in her hair and a dead mouse under her pillow and finding her tools covered in maple syrup. Unfortunately, she’s also familiar enough with it to know that there’s very little she can do once he sets his mind to it. He’s a spiteful pipsqueak, Ed.

She turns to Al to voice her annoyance, but she finds that his attention has been directed over her head. Whatever he’s peering at, it inspires a somber gleam in his eyes.

Frowning, she follows his gaze. Across the aisle, a woman is tugging her daughter closer to her and throwing an anxious look in Al’s direction. The droning murmurs of the other passengers suddenly become clearer—anxiety, unease, wariness, snippets about the person wearing a scary suit of armor. What person in their right mind wears that on a train or near small children? Honestly. They’ll let all sorts of weirdos on the train these days. Don’t they know they’re going to _scare_ people, dressed like that?

Something aches inside Winry’s chest. She turns back to Al, but he’s already looked away.

Unfortunately, she’s not the only one who notices. Ed’s gaze flickers over to the crowd, and his face twists into a murderous scowl. He makes a move to get up.

“Brother,” Al says urgently, before Ed can leap fully out of his seat. “ _Don’t_.”

The fury doesn’t dampen, but the pleading expression Al sends him ultimately forces Ed back into his seat. He still looks appropriately cross, though, glaring at the crowd with unmitigated anger. “Someone needs to beat some _sense_ into those idiots.”

A sigh resounds throughout Al’s body and he looks away. “...it’s not their fault I look scary.”

The ache inside her chest suddenly twists, raw and sharp. Ed’s expression softens, and he is quick to look away. The furrow in his brow is wrought with something pained.

“You are _not_ scary,” he enunciates sharply. Then, all of a sudden, he turns back to them with a grin stretched across his face that looks rather plastic and a wild glint in his eyes that reeks of mischief. “If anything, Al, _I’m_ the scary one!”

Exasperation crashes over Winry, because Edward Hohenheim is, first and foremost, an utter bonehead. There’s a resounding smack as her palm meets her forehead.

Al blankly stares at Ed for several moments. “...Brother.”

“No, seriously! I’m _terrifying_!” The laugh that spills from Ed is bright and a touch forced in its mirth. He leans back into his seat, folding his arms behind his head and crossing one leg over the other in the epitome of haughtiness.

Winry attempts to remove her hand, but the weight of her exasperation is too great. “The only thing terrifying about you, Ed, is your _fashion sense_.”

In the background, people still murmur, but it’s harder to pay them any mind—not when Ed is grinning a little more genuinely now, fierce and sharp, white teeth and sulphur-bright eyes. “Says the girl who thinks _hardware tools_ are fashion accessories.”

With the bottom of her foot, she toes at her workbag, which has been laid out on the ground at her feet to accommodate the fact that Al fills the seat at her side. She lowers her hand and narrows her eyes carefully. “Don’t make me get out my wrench, buster.”

“You know,” Al says suddenly, thoughtfully, with a hint of humor, “in a way, maybe _Winry’s_ the scariest one of all of us.”

Her foot stills, flattery and annoyance warring inside her gut. It’s one thing to call her scary, but to call her the scariest? She balks at Al, unsure if she should be insulted or not. “Since _when_?”

“Since you bludgeon people with _wrenches_ ,” Ed chirps, falsely bright. He seems to be taking far more amusement in this than need be—and only then does she think she understand what he’s doing.

Murmurs and whispers still echo around the car, but there’s less wariness now, or at least it doesn’t seem so important anymore. Al is looking at them, not at the children huddling closer to their mothers or the adults shooting them disapproving looks. He’s looking at them and not out the window at the green blur of Amestris in an attempt to sublimate his discomfort. He’s looking at _them_.

She forces a haughty look upon her face and sticks her chin out high. It’s a little silly, but she’s willing to play along. “Wrenches that you run from! Ha! Maybe I _am_ the scariest person here!”

“Are you kidding me?” The falsely-challenging gleam in Ed’s eye seems to grow a bit more genuine at that. “You should have _seen_ the things we had to endure during our training. If I haven’t emerged scarier than Teacher, then I’ve _failed_ as an apprentice!”

Judging from the dubious look in Al’s eye, there’s way more to it than that. But he ultimately chooses not to comment on it, just sighs and gives his head a minute, creaking shake.

“You still _run_ from me,” Winry declares triumphantly. She recalls all the times she managed to scare them away with the wrench in her hand and the smile that is affixed to her face suddenly widens with genuineness. “You couldn’t scare _anyone_.”

There are a few frowns thrown in their direction by the other passengers. The two of them are both talking loudly, loudly enough to garner the attention of others, but that’s not really their problem, is it? If people want to talk, then fine. They can talk. But it’s not as though it matters what they think.

“Could so!” There’s a touch of petulance in his tone. He leans forward, as though doing so will somehow make his point more valid, and there’s a competitive gleam in his eye that she recognizes well. “I have the fighting skills to take out a full-grown man!”

Briefly, she tries to envision Ed wrestling a grown man to the ground and—she can’t. She just _can’t_. He’s twelve and loudmouthed and she’s taller than him. The idea of this boy who grew up next door to her _actually_ pinning down a grownup is just too ludicrous. “I _seriously_ doubt that.”

At this, he bares his teeth at her, and brandishes his automail. The steel plating that peeks out from his glove and sleeve flashes in the sunlight, blindingly bright. It leaves her blinking spots from her eyes. “I have a _metal freaking arm_.”

“I _made_ your arm.” She thinks of nights spent fashioning metal into plates, thinks of the way she manipulated wires and the hydraulics—melded it all into a beautiful masterpiece of living machinery. A lesser person would lack the upper body strength to work with steel. A lesser person might electrocute themselves on the wiring. A lesser person might burn themselves with a blowtorch. But she’s twelve years old and better, so _ha_.

Having no comeback to that, Ed only growls and narrows his eyes in what he probably thinks is an intimidating scowl. Ha! “I’m scarier than you, admit it!”

A sudden impulse strikes her, and she falls back against her seat with a laugh spilling from her throat. “Not in a million years, Hohenheim!”

“Okay, _that’s_ it!” Every booth on the train has a tabletop between them, one that folds up against the wall and can be unfolded for such occasions as eating, or needing something to place things on. Playing cards, for example. Ed pulls theirs out so fast that she can actually hear the _whoosh_ of air. It’s secured with a soft click, and then the sound of his elbow-bone striking the plastic surface creates an audible thunk. “You, me, arm wrestling. We’ll _prove_ who’s the most terrifying!”

A competitive fire lights in her. In the past, Ed and Al usually competed with each other over little things, but that doesn’t mean she was never involved. The three of them used to place bets on who could get the highest math grade, before the brothers dropped out of school. She rolls up her sleeves, and then her elbow hits the tabletop. “Oh, you’re _on_.”

People are still murmuring. The topic of conversation has changed from the massive suit of armor and how no one wants it near their children to the two loudmouthed blondes and their disrespectful bickering. No one’s paying any attention to Al—and the three of them aren’t paying attention to anyone else.

Al does a double-take between them, half-apprehensive and half-incredulous. “...are you guys serious?”

“No automail arm,” she says, because it would be a true stab of cruelty to have her own masterpiece turned against her.

Ed snorts, as though offended by the very notion. “ _Obviously_.”

“Oh my god,” Al mutters.

It’s not about the passengers anymore, them and their stupid opinions. They can think whatever they want.

She’s sure that her eyes have the same competitive gleam in them, her blue matching Ed’s gold, counterparts and adversaries all at once. “Winner walks away with title of ‘Most Terrifying Risemboolite’.”

“What’s really terrifying,” Al declares loudly, exasperation mixing with dismay to the point where he completely neglects his volume, “is how _crazy_ you both are.”

Rather than offended, Ed looks almost jubilant, flashing a wild grin that seems to light up his entire face. His eyes dance and his teeth are white and it’s all framed by curtains of gold. “Says a lot about you, though, doesn’t it?” he returns automatically, almost unfairly chipper. “You’re friends with one of us and related to the other!”

Groaning, Al places both leather hands on his helmet, right over his eyes. He mutters something in mortified Xerxean.

“Yup!” A grin splits Winry’s face and she suddenly finds herself laughing, jabbing her elbow into his side just like she used to. Her elbow bone thuds hard against the metal surface, so hard it might bruise, but it doesn’t matter. She’s grinning and laughing and she can almost pretend that nothing is difference. “You’re _stuck_ with us, Alphonse.”

Suddenly Al is laughing, perhaps at the sheer absurdity of it. It starts out small, but then they join him, and it gradually gets louder. Winry feels light and heady and warm, feels like someone poured liquid sunshine in her belly. Outside, the world is a little brown because of autumn, the sky a little more brittle in color, but the brightness of it has not been diminished in the slightest, the sun still sharply white as it illuminates the world beneath it.

It’s about them, now. Just the three of them.

Once he’s done, Al leans forward, an earnest and appreciative light in his eyes. “Thanks, guys.”

Ed gives a haughty sniff and leans forward, planting his elbows on the tabletop. He grins mischievously, not unlike the time he and Al spun her around on the tire swing until she threw up. “What are you thanking us for? I’m still arm-wrestling Winry.”

She blinks at him, the smile freezing on her face. It takes a few moments of staring at his bright, pearly-toothed grin to realize that this isn’t just playful banter. Well, it is, but he’s not just saying things for the sake of it anymore. “Wait, seriously?”

So much has happened in such a short time. The Ishval War ending and Uncle Van’s death, the transmutation and Ed’s automail—and now Majhal and his delusions. It’s almost hard to remember how young they ae. In a perfect world, they would still be racing down the roads of Risembool, stupid kids with only summer on their faces and nothing to fear. It’s the way it should have been, if all had gone well. But it didn’t, and now they’re a bit broken in places they shouldn’t be, touched by far-reaching tragedy and second-hand grief.

“Aw, are you scared?” He screws his face up into a mocking pout and a poor imitation of puppy-dog eyes.

 _Scared_? Indignation sparks in her belly. Clenching her jaw, Winry brings her arm back up on the table. The forming bruise on her elbow twinges as it meets the plastic tabletop. “Like _hell_. Prepare to get your butt kicked!”

“Gearhead!”

“Alchemy freak!”

Al groans again.

But for a moment, maybe they can pretend. They can slip back into their roles as stupid kids absorbed in their own petty squabbling.

Her hand meets Ed’s, and they clench together. He grins at her, wide and dizzyingly bright, as the war for supremacy begins.

Just for a little bit.

* * *

_~Limited Express, Luxury Car Switchboard_

“I’m telling you, Riza, being a parent is going to be _amazing_. I’m sort of terrified but also excited at the same time—does that make any sense?”

“Hughes,” Hawkeye deadpans.

“And I’m sort of hoping for a boy.” Pause. “Is that wrong? I know you’re not supposed to care, as long the baby’s _healthy_ and all... but I’m _really_ hoping for a boy.”

“Perhaps you should be discussing this at home. In person. With your spouse.”

“Oh, come now! Friends talk to each other about these sort of things.” No response. Playful eyeroll. “And for you information, I have discussed this _plenty_ with my spouse. So much so that I need some time out of the house. Hence why I’m here.”

There’s a rustle of papers on the other line. Knowing Hawkeye, she’s probably doing paperwork even while she’s on the phone. “That’s not really a good excuse to be out in the field, in your condition.”

“I’m perfectly healthy!”

“You’re going to worry your husband.”

Major Gracia Hughes laughs lightly into the receiver as she straightens in her seat. The switchboard room on the train is rather cramped and her butt is sore from having to sit down so long, but at least it’s a swivel chair. “I have a feeling we’re passed that point. Dare I ask how often he’s been calling the office to check up on me in the last week?”

An exasperated sigh is the only answer Gracia receives on that front, which really just says everything. And Gracia _loves_ Maes, she really does, but part of loving someone is being aware of their faults, each and every last one. As much as she appreciates Maes doting on her, as much as she adores the attention and melts at all the sweet, romantic gestures—there are times when he goes a bit overboard. Like calling Hawkeye or Roy at work when she stays at the office late, mostly so they might be able pass on whatever loving message he conjures up. She can’t blame Hawkeye for being a touch exasperated, because civilians really shouldn’t have access to military lines. It is only by virtue of her husband’s sheer persistence that he’s able to bypass the operators so easily. If not for their pact to separate their personal and work lives, those calls would probably go straight to her office. But alas, the pact is in place, so things are the way they are.

“I’m sorry,” says Gracia. And she means it, she really does. But it’s also a source of great triumph that she married a man so considerate and caring that he’s willing to bug her colleagues over her. Especially considering how terrifying her colleagues are. Every time Maes and Hawkeye interact, she lowkey fears for her husband’s life.

“If you were truly sorry,” replies Hawkeye flatly, “you would prevent it by going on maternity leave.”

Her hand falls to the subtle swell of her stomach, where a young new life is being harbored beneath the fabric of her blouse and the thickness of a bullet proof vest, which is there for the very purpose of protecting said life. And yes, Hawkeye is probably right. It’s probably a good idea for someone in her condition to not be out in the field, far away from the relative safety of her desk and paperwork—but this particular mission took her out of Central for a month and away from the judging eyes of her superiors. Stuffy old men who were already intimidated by a high-ranking, married woman in the military and believe that once a woman married she should retire and become a housewife. Stuffy old men who are even less thrilled with the fact that she’s pregnant and still enlisted and still working just as hard as any male officer. Stuffy old men who would probably use her declining this mission due to her condition against her and try to tear her career apart while she’s away on mat-leave, which they would push her into prematurely.

Misogyny is really one of man’s worst blights.

But she doesn’t need to say this, because Hawkeye is already aware of how difficult it is to be a young, pretty, talented woman in the military. She is also well aware that Gracia can handle herself just as efficiently as any man—maybe even better. Lots of men died in Ishval, but she survived, so there.

Instead, she curls the phone chord around her finger and answers with a coy, “Technically you can only go on maternity leave after six months. I’m only in my fifth.”

Hawkeye’s pause is heavy with the weight of her resignation. “Where’s Falman?” she asks tonelessly.

“You mean Vato?” Gracia likes calling fellow soldiers by their first names. It’s more challenging to remember, but it’s also more personal, and she’s very pro-personal. For some reason, though, it tends to make people uncomfortable—particularly this man, silver-haired and so by-the-book that she honestly has to wonder why Hawkeye hired him. “He’s around here...somewhere.”

In reality, he’s casing the cars for anyone he suspects to be worthy of suspicion or matching the known members of the ELF. Apparently the man has an eidetic memory, which Gracia supposes is useful in its own right. But he’s so _orthodox_ , and she really doesn’t like orthodox men. They grate upon her patience.

“Did you send my subordinate on a food-run?”

While she is slightly offended by the assumption, the temptation is too much to resist. The coiled chord tightens around her finger as she smirks. “Well, I _do_ have cravings...”

“May I then suggest taking a five minutes’ break to grab yourself a snack?”

“And leave the car unattended?” Gracia unwinds the phone chord from her finger and crosses one leg over the other. “Come on, Riza. You talk you like you don’t even know me.”

“Yes, yes.” There’s a sigh in the way Hawkeye says that. “You being a workaholic and all.”

And there’s a little bit of sarcasm there, which Gracia has to snort at. “You say that like you aren’t _worse_.”

“That is not true.”

Uh huh. _Sure._ They do say you are never too old to lie to yourself. “Did you or did you not fall asleep at your desk last night doing paperwork?”

The lack of response means that Gracia is right on the money, as per usual. Hawkeye probably woke up this morning with a sore back and a crick in her neck and a little bit of drool on her files. She chuckles triumphantly into the receiver.

“This,” begins Hawkeye, enunciating herself very carefully the way she does when she’s annoyed at everything, “is not about me and my work ethic. _I_ am not pregnant—nor do I need to be on maternity leave.”

Wow, she’s really not going to let this go, is she? Gracia sighs and shifts the handset on her shoulder. The cold metal kiss of the receiver digs into her chin. “Which I’ll take once I get back. Okay?”

Voices sound faintly in the background. Gracia doesn’t recognize the speaker. New recruit? Or maybe someone’s collaborating. She hopes not, because Hawkeye is notoriously uncomfortable with strangers getting in her space and telling her what to do and just overall undermining her authority because she’s a smart, pretty, the only-woman-State-Alchemist-currently-enlisted type of unconventional. The handset is pressed closer to her ear in a vain attempt to better decipher the background nose, but Hawkeye’s voice as she replies doesn’t give away much. Neutral, no panic or traces of annoyance. So nothing’s wrong then. No emergencies or anything. Probably just the addition of more paperwork.

Judging from the shuffle of papers, Gracia’s guess is likely accurate. “You understand my trepidation,” retorts Hawkeye, not unkindly.

“Don’t worry. Once I’m on mat-leave, it’ll likely take all my willpower not to remain in the presence of my beautiful baby.” She gives her womb an appreciative pat. Boy or girl, there’s no denying that the child is going to capture her heart. Hell, they already have, sneaky little bugger. “And Maes will probably be doting on me every minute of every day, so. My work ethic will surely suffer.”

“Good,” comes the approving reply. “Your work ethic _needs_ a little suffering.”

Gracia fans herself one-handedly. It’s very hot on the train, for some reason—or maybe its another hot flash. She’s been getting them over the last couple weeks or so, and it’s not quite so as horrible as morning sickness, granted, but still rather inconvenient. “So does yours! You should get a _hobby_ or something, Riza. Doing paperwork all the time isn’t a _healthy_ —”

At the sound of the dial tone, she stops and blinks. She takes the handset out from the cradle between her chin and shoulder to peer into the receiver, just to be sure.

Yup, dial tone.

Well... Hawkeye _did_ threaten to hang up if the subject ever came up over the phone again. Who knew she would be so literal about it, though?

Gracia hums as she sets about connecting back to the office. Switchboards are a little finicky, moreso than landlines, but their complexity is rather fascinating and she’s always liked codes. Something fascinating about the intricacy of them, the sweet satisfaction that comes from unraveling them.

Falman is taking a while to scan the cars. She hopes he hasn’t gotten himself into trouble. The men guarding Hakuro and his family are highly competent in theory, but she doubts any of them have ever stepped foot on the battlefield—they’re all training, no experience, just shy of the Ishval draft. Hopefully they can defend against a gang of terrorists, but she’s a little skeptical. That’s part of the reason why she’s here, after all.

Ringing, ringing, ringing. She glances out the window again. If she were to stand and press her face against the glass, she might be able to make out Hakuro’s private booth with the soldiers posted at it. Their blue uniforms stick out like a sore thumb. He’s not very good at subtly, Hakuro. More like, overconfident and convinced that the East’s troubles can’t touch someone of his caliber. When in reality, it’s exactly because of his caliber that the East’s troubles might come after him. You don’t mess with anarchist groups—even if they are disorganized, they tend to make things go boom, and they aren’t very concerned with collateral damage. The ELF would probably kill everyone on this train just to send a message.

To her surprise, she’s found that her hand has unconsciously dropped to touch her stomach. Maybe Hawkeye’s right. Maybe it’s about time she takes mat-leave—or at least stop with the field missions. Some nice, safe deskwork is just what the doctor ordered.

An operator, with a bright and perky voice that has likely never seen combat, asks for her name and military code. Leaning back, she relays it, trying to remain unbothered. The bulletproof vest is chafing her shoulders and her heat flashes really have chosen a right awful time. The added layer certainly isn’t helping.

There’s a click as the phone is answered. Instead of Hawkeye’s brisk greeting, Gracia is met with a charmingly slow, “Hello?”

Amusement, more than anything else, causes her lip to curl. “Hey Roy. It’s Gracia.”

“Ah! Major Hughes!” comes the amicable reply. She can envision his easy, effortless smile on the other end—the smile that’s earned him his reputation as a lady-killer. He’s very good at smiling, Roy. “It’s _so_ good to hear from you!”

“And you,” she replies, which isn’t entirely a lie. Even if his effortless charm is nothing more than a parlor trick, she still very much likes Roy. Maybe she should invite him to dinner once this is all over. Lord knows she needs a buffer to keep Maes from getting all over her about taking care of herself and everything—she loves the man, but he’s a bit of a nag sometimes. “Riza has you answering phones now, huh?”

This earns a longsuffering, slightly overdramatic sigh from him. Ever the melodramatist, Roy (at the office, anyway). “Oh yes. I was _bad_ and now I’m being forced to do secretarial tasks.”

Oh dear. “Is that right?”

“I’ve also been assigned the entire team’s paperwork for the whole week!” he goes on morosely. Which, wow, does seem a little over-the-top. Doesn’t Hawkeye know how bad Roy is at paperwork? He’s good at sorting files, maybe, but not filling them out. “It’s an utter travesty, major!”

Gracia clucks her tongue sympathetically. “Now, Roy, we _both_ know that flirting with your superiors tends to end badly for you.”

He lets out a morose noise of acknowledgement at that, but doesn’t say anything else on the subject. This isn’t the first time things have gone this way and he knows it.

Perspiration is starting to bead on her forehead. Hot flashes are _really_ quite inconvenient. At least she isn’t getting up to pee every ten seconds like a senior citizen. “I hate to ask this over a military line, but how’s Maes? Is he behaving himself?”

“In a way.” His tone indicates that he’s recovered a bit, enough for an edge of wariness to emerge. Something about the way he says that makes anxiety curl through her. “He’s been awfully clingy, though. Just last week he was so stir-crazy that he dragged me out to go _furniture_ shopping.”

Here we go. She drums her fingers against her thigh and hopes the action looks more contemplative to onlookers than nervous. “Don’t tell me—he got the red couch, didn’t he? He’s been eyeing that thing for a week and I keep _trying_ to tell him that it doesn’t go with the den...”

Shuffling on the other end. The faint sound of voices in the background. She hears him shift the phone from one side to the other. “No, no. Luckily for you, he managed to restrain himself and purchased the green one instead.”

 _Green couch._ Her fingers still, and she catches herself before she can let out a breath of relief. “Well, that’s good to hear! Thank you for keeping him company.”

“Nonsense. He’s a good friend, and it’s my pleasure.” There’s genuineness in Roy’s tone and she knows for a fact that this part is not just code. He was Maes’s best man at their wedding, after all, and they’ve known each other for a good couple years. “Would you like me to hand you over to the colonel?”

Falman’s silhouette emerges beyond the window. About time, too. She greets him with a dainty little wave. “That would be just _lovely_ , thank you.”

As the phone is being transferred on the other end, Warrant Officer Vato Falman opens the door. Like her and unlike the guards currently stationed at Hakuro’s side, he’s adorned in civilian attire so as not make his status too noticeable. She wouldn’t be surprised if people thought he was just another passenger wandering around the cars in search of a bathroom. There’s something distinctly urgent about his expression.

“Colonel Hawkeye speaking,” says Hawkeye into the phone. She likes her new title, Gracia can tell. Less wordy, more weight behind it, and damn well deserved. God knows military women have to work twice as hard to be half as good.

From the look on Falman’s face, he _really_ wants to give the report. Which doesn’t bode well. Only danger demands urgency. Gracia touches her stomach again. “Hey Riza, it’s me again. The line’s secure, right?”

Her bluntness must strike Hawkeye, at first, but the Flame Alchemist is nothing if not adaptable. In a measured tone, she parries with, “Yes. Fuery just did a check. We’re all clear.”

The name “Fuery” is unfamiliar enough for Gracia to deduce that he must be the new guy on Hawkeye’s team, the specialist who’s apparently good with connections and wiring. “That was fast! Guy must be talented. Maybe I should meet him.”

“Later.” There’s an implied _please don’t get too friendly with my recruits_ there, but they can address that later. Hawkeye’s idea of “too friendly” is running into your colleagues at the grocer’s. “What’s the status?”

“Well, Falman just got back, so I’ll let him tell you.” Gracia switches the phone to speaker and passes it off to Falman, who looks all-too-eager to take it. His grip on the handset is just this side of too tight.

“Sir,” says Falman, because the man is straightlaced as hell and must always greet his superior with an acknowledgement that they are, in fact, his superiors. She can admire the attitude behind it, but again, orthodox men are quite tiresome. “Approximately five of the men in our database on known ELF members are on the train, sir.”

There’s a brief pause. Gracia feels her heart pick up a bit, which of course makes the baby squirm a little. She presses her hand harder against her stomach in what she hopes is comforting. Here she’d been hoping the tipoff was wrong, that this would be an easy trip. Just stand around and keep the Hakuro family in your sight at all times, watch out for pickpockets, make sure the trains are punctual and the hotels are up to standard. Just her luck that her last field mission before maternity leave would involve terrorists.

 _Maes is going to have a panic attack when he finds out_ , she thinks morosely. She can practically hear it now.

“Only five?” Hawkeye asks carefully. Gracia doesn’t blame her for the surprise in her tone. Five is a particularly small number, especially for an entire train. You might be able to hold up a bank with five people, but a train, with multiple cars? Severely understaffed.

“That I could recognize, sir.” The implications of that statement are clear enough, even without the unease in Falman’s tone. “There were a few other suspicious-looking characters, but I am unable to verify any connection to the ELF.”

“So they could be using members we don’t know about,” Gracia concludes, crossing her arms. Sounds like a good countermeasure to her.

“Exactly,” Falman says, nodding.

They’ve been operating under the assumption that the ELF was a messily disorganized group. But perhaps they underestimated them. Using unverified members doesn’t sound like a coincidence to her. Crafty bastards.

Given the thoughtful hum on the other end, Gracia isn’t the only one who thinks so. “...we’ll have to be extra cautious—Hughes, stay on the line at all times. I want communications open.”

She is almost insulted that Hawkeye is actually using this situation against her. Almost. “You just want me in here and not out there where I could get hurt.”

“May I remind you that you’re pregnant?”

Technically, Gracia could argue here. She could point out the sidearm concealed in the purse slung over her shoulder, the fact that her wedding ring can tear someone in the cheek if she punches someone, and even the emergency push-knives concealed in her belt for easy access. The bulletproof vest worn beneath her blouse is even there for the very purpose of protecting both her _and_ the baby, with the modification of extra padding around the torso for the sake of the latter.

It’s not worth the battle, though. She may not be Gracia’s commanding officer, but Hawkeye is a superior officer and she’s in charge of this. And giving orders. Plus, she has to think about the baby too, specifically not getting herself shot or jeopardizing the life in her belly. Right now, it’s the only thing that takes priority over her job.

So instead she sighs and resigns herself to several hours huddled in the switchboard closet. “Okay, okay. I will stay out of it.”

“Thank you.” There’s genuine gratitude in Hawkeye’s tone, and, well, Gracia supposes that’s sort of rewarding. My, she’s going soft.

It’s only then that she notices Falman’s tight grip on the handset has not loosened. “Also, I feel it necessary to inform you that there is one particularly suspicious individual on this train, sir.”

Unease curls in Gracia’s chest, and she sits up a little straighter in anticipation. After spending a month in proximity to Falman, she has learned that he is particularly logical person, one that does not abide by gut feelings unless they are backed up by factual evidence. If he thinks someone’s suspicious, then chances are this is a person she needs to keep her eye out for.

Cautiously, Hawkeye asks, “What kind of individual?”

The warrant officer wets his lips. “A man dressed in a full suit of armor, sir.”

...what.

Silence on Hawkeye’s end, which gives Gracia the time she needs to process that. It’s such a _bizarre_ thing, really—the only time she has ever seen armor being worn casually by anyone is either in historical illustrations from her high school history textbook or if there’s a historical re-enaction event going on in the park. Technically, she supposes that automail counts, because she has seen a few particularly tricked-out examples that are massive in their construction, their metallic plates wrought into deadly weapons, that could almost resemble medieval armor. Very scary, that technology, but that’s not quite the same thing as what Falman is describing. And it doesn’t make _sense_.

The only possible explanation she can conjure is that this person is expecting a full-out assault or something else of that nature, but it’s a bit too conspicuous.

“You’re sure it was a suit of armor?” She doesn’t mean to doubt Falman’s eidetic memory, she really doesn’t. But there’s really no downplaying the utter bizarreness of statement.

“Yes, sir.” Gravity is wrought across his features, and even then, he doesn’t strike her as the type to crack practical jokes. There’s sweat on his brow, likely from how quickly he tried to get up here without alarming the other passengers. Or maybe it’s from his own nervousness. “Massive. Around seven feet tall, if I had to guess.”

More silence. Gracia’s brow furrows. It’s not a considering pause, but rather something drawn-out and thick with anxiety. That doesn’t tend to bode well.

“Was there a blond boy with him?” Hawkeye asks, sharp and slow. She’s enunciating again, but each syllable seems to stab, which is testament to just how monumentally _pissed_ she is.

Vaguely fearful for her life, Gracia extricates the handset from Falman. “Come again?”

“A blond boy.” Hawkeye’s voice is low and dark, brimming with an unspoken threat. Gracia actually feels a shiver of muted terror go down her spine. “Was the man wearing the armor accompanied by a blond boy?”

It is perhaps a true testament to Falman’s steel nerves that he does not show the slightest bit of unease at the change in his superior’s tone. Instead, his face scrunches with deep thought, brows knitting to crease his forehead. “...apologies, sir. My attention was focused on the armor, so I cannot say for certain.”

A noise of displeasure comes from the other end. Gracia and Falman exchange a wary glance. That never bodes well.

“I could double-check, perhaps?” Falman offers, a touch warily. So much for his steel nerves.

“Yes. Do that. _Immediately_.”

Looking very eager to get the hell out, Falman nods and exits. The door slides closed behind him, leaving Gracia alone with the phone. As she switches it off of speaker and brings the handset back to her ear, she catches a few muttered expletives and something along the lines of “you’ve got to be _kidding_ me”.

At this point, the perspiration on her brow is more nerves than heat, but she still has to ask. “Riza, I would _very_ much appreciate it if you told me that there isn’t a crazy alchemist on the train. Because if so, then I legitimately have to worry for my husband’s stress levels.”

“I wouldn’t discount ‘crazy’,” retorts Hawkeye with an edge of annoyance. “But not _dangerous_ , per se. More... asinine.”

Gracia feels like there’s a story to that. But before Hawkeye can explain, gunshots resound beyond the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to your regularly scheduled plot. In case you haven't figured it out, I'm following the '03 format with its several-episode-long flashback sequence because I found it to be the most brilliant aspect of the '03 anime's storytelling. Plus, Brotherhood never incorporated the train chapter.
> 
> It is with great pleasure that I present the third official roleswap of Grand Arcanum—Maes and Gracia Hughes. Honestly, I don't think _anyone_ has thought of this yet, or has at least not written anything on it from what I've seen. I'm kind of hesitant to introduce this, but I'm so taken with the concept that I couldn't _not_ run with it.
> 
> If there are any questions or needed clarification, don't be afraid to ask!
> 
> Sincerely,  
> The Immortal Moon


	17. Strangers on a Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That depends,” Al says cautiously. A Very Bad Feeling prickles beneath steel. “What are _you_ planning to do?”

_“Leap, and the net will appear.”_  
—John Burroughs

 

_~Limited Express, Passenger Car 4, 1911_

Brother has fallen asleep at some point, head lolled to one side and his coat thrown over himself in a makeshift blanket. Al is more relieved than annoyed, because it’s probably the first time Ed’s actually slept, smoothly and soundly, since Bumble Hollow. Even last night, he’d been twitchy, tossing and turning and mumbling things under his breath that Al hadn’t been able to determine. It’s a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

Winry has taken her tools out and spread them out across the foldable tabletop. A small bottle of polish sits nearby, and as he observes, she drips a bit into a dingy white kerchief. Then she takes a dulled spanner in her hand, running the wet patch of the cloth along the metal surface. To his amazement, the tarnish melts off, revealing a glistening shine like freshly-smelt steel. A polish that powerful must have a very distinctive and not entirely pleasant smell, so he’s slightly grateful that this body isn’t equipped with a working nose.

Meanwhile, he occupies himself with a game of solitaire. He’s terrible at it, but there’s a couple hours to go before they reach Central. Maybe he’ll have improved a little by the time they arrive.

“Did Ed tell you what this lead was?” Winry asks suddenly. Her tone is listless, rather idle with her attention focused on polishing her tools, but there’s a note of some subdued edge beneath it.

It seems that he’s just not made for solitaire. Al sighs and reshuffles the cards back into the deck. “No.”

A pensive look flashes across her face at that, but she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. It’s unusual that Brother would keep something from him, much less something of this magnitude. Al isn’t quite sure how to feel about it himself.

Another few moments pass. The door to the car opens and a silver-haired man emerges. Al thinks it might be the same man who was, at least as far as Al thought, looking for the bathroom a few minutes ago. He remembers the way those narrow, intelligent eyes lingered on him for a moment before quickly turning away—it was about the only thing he remembers, because everything else about the man is particularly unremarkable. It puzzled him, and puzzles him even more to see the man returning. Did he not find the bathroom or get lost returning to his car or something?

Discontented murmurs arise from the booth across from theirs. This booth is occupied by a pair of men in dark windbreakers who have a sort of gaunt, starved look about them. Al tried not to pay them too much mind when they first took their seats, because he really didn’t want invite more negative attention than he’s already garnering. But there’s something in their voices that makes him a bit uneasy. As subtly as he can, he glances over his shoulder and notes the shiftiness of their gazes. They keep glancing at the man at the doorway, but their sunglasses make it harder for him to determine any emotion.

There’s... something in the air. An anticipation of some kind.

The silver-haired man ambles down the aisle at a leisurely pace, gaze roving the car with a sort of feigned indifference. None of the other passengers pay him any mind, not really. Just those two men, with their dark windbreakers and their sunglass-concealed eyes. They’re watching him the way a cat might watch a curious mouse poking its head out from the wall with twitching whiskers.

As the silver-haired man approaches them, Al notices something beneath his jacket. A swift, subtle glint of metal. The man is _armed_.

Al barely has any time to process this before the two men leap out of their seats. They whip guns out of nowhere, and the metal flashes blindingly in the filtering sunlight. Twin clicks signal that the guns are cocked, the safety turned off. The only thing holding back the bullets are fingers twitching on the trigger.

“Everybody stay down!” One of the men sweeps his gun across the left aisle. A woman pulls her daughter close with wide, trembling eyes. He sneers at her unsympathetically, his finger twitching slightly. The little girl yelps her fear.

“Hands over your heads,” commands the other. The people nearest to the barrel of his gun are quick to comply, dropping whatever they were holding to raise their hands high in the air. Some move with more reluctance, others frightfully quick. “We don’t want _aaaany_ heroes, got it?”

Alarm is quick to seize Al’s soul, followed by a powerful grip of anxiety and fear. Though Teacher taught him and Brother how to disarm someone with a weapon, he’s never been confronted by anyone with a gun before. At his side, Winry’s eyes widen, grip clenching around the wrench in her hand so tightly that her knuckles start to whiten. Oblivious to the world, Brother shifts a little in his sleep.

When the men had leaped out into the aisle, the silver-haired man immediately whirled around, reaching for his waist. But before he can pull it out, a third man that Al didn’t notice before suddenly appears, and the barrel of a pistol is aimed at the back of the silver-haired man’s head. A tiny gasp leaves Al as the silver-haired man freezes.

“Hands up,” says the third man, clicking the safety off his pistol. He has a thick Drachman accent that makes his words sharper, like an axe-blade swinging down to snap wooden logs in half.

If Al had flesh-body, his heart would be pounding in his ears and there would be so much adrenaline pumping through him that his hands would be shaking. As it is, his body just sits there, perfectly still, a faint ringing in his metaphorical ears. Whimpers arise from scared patrons and young children begin sobbing. The silver-haired man’s gaze carefully scans the area, lingering on the guns, calculating silently. Then, very slowly, he releases his grip on the pistol and raises his hands over his head.

“That’s a good dog,” says the Drachman-sounding man.

The remark makes the silver-haired man clench his teeth, frustrated, but he doesn’t move as the Drachman-sounding man confiscates his pistol.

Oh God oh God oh God. Al tries not to panic, tries to think rationally. He’s an invulnerable suit of armor, unfeeling and unyielding steel. If he intervenes, he could probably disarm them without getting hurt—but there’s the other passengers to consider.

Maybe _he_ can’t be harmed by bullets, but the ricochet could endanger everyone else. Everyone who is flesh and blood and bone that can be easily punctured, easily killed. And it’s going to be very difficult to take out all three of them at once, because if he doesn’t, that means any one of them can aim their gun at some poor hostage. That’s more than enough incentive to make him desist.

Brother grumbles under his breath and curls up tighter.

Annoyance flashes across the Drachman-sounding man’s face. He pivots the gun away from the silver-haired man, who is immediately pinned with another gun from another sunglasses-wearing man, and aims the barrel of it at Brother. Alarm spikes through Al. Winry lets out a short, strangled noise, which she silences by quickly clapping her hand over her mouth.

“Oi.” The Drachman-sounding man fiddles with the trigger. Al leans forward, the metal plating of his body all but vibrating with tension. “Pipsqueak—”

There’s a resounding _crack_ of metal against bone, and a thud as the man hits the ground, a dark shoeprint marring his unconscious face. Brother stands over him, snarling and chest heaving, eyes ablaze with fury.

“WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SMALL HE NEEDS TO BE SEEN WITH A MAGNIFYING GLASS?!”

Words cannot describe the weight of Al’s incredulity with the situation. He is simultaneously relieved and wrestling with the urge to bang his helmet against the wall. “...Brother. No one _said_ that.”

“Well, it’s what they were _thinking_!” Brother shouts back furiously.

When the Drachman-sounding man fell, the silver-haired man was thrown back into the nearest booth, ending up dazed and sprawled across a tabletop. The two remaining men recover much faster and are quick to aim their guns at Brother, their faces flashing with alarm and the steel bullet chambers glinting.

“Hands up!” shouts one of the men. There’s a distinct tremor of alarm.

Uncomprehending, Brother’s gaze flits from one gun to the other. His eyes widen. “What the...?”

Without warning, something metallic crashes into the nearest man’s head. He falls to the floor with a grunt, and the wrench that hit him clatters against the floorboards alongside his gun. Bewildered, Al peers at Winry, her face white with horror and her outstretched hand still trembling faintly, conspicuously lacking any hardware tools. The other hand is clutches so tightly around her kerchief that her knuckles are starting to whiten.

Immediately, the remaining man whirls around and aims his gun at Winry’s head. Al is reacting before he can even process it. One hand pushes Winry flat against the seat, while the other clasps around the nozzle just as the man squeezes the trigger.

The bullet punches through his leather hand, and he can hear it bouncing around inside the hollow of his body. Brother makes a move to lunge at the man, but in that moment, the silver-haired man, who has apparently gotten back on his feet and recovered a gun, bangs the butt of it against the back of the gun-wielding man’s skull. With a resounding _crack_ , the man drops to the floor.

A beat of silence lapses. The silver-haired man breathes heavily and clicks the safety off the gun, then tucks it into the fold of his jacket. Brother blinks at the three fallen men as though he can’t quite process their existence. Al slides back into his seat and casts Winry a worried look. She’s still trembling from the shock, and he’d lay a comforting hand on her shoulder, but he fears the bullet hole might set her off more.

“Well,” muses the silver-haired man breathlessly, “that could have gone better.”

Brother snorts pointedly and grabs his coat, which was thrown to the floor when he kicked the Drachman-sounding man in the face. His suitcase is also on the ground. After slipping his automail arm through the sleeve, he bends down to scoop it up by the handle. “Who the hell _are_ you?”

“Warrant Officer Vato Falman,” replies the man, which takes Al aback. Why is a military officer aboard the train, and in plainclothes no less? Before he can properly ask this question, though, the warrant officer turns his attention to the passengers. “Everyone remain calm! We have everything under control.”

 _We?_  He catches Brother’s eye and sees his own suspicions reflected back at him. The military wouldn’t occupy a train unless they were acting as security, or they were traveling to their headquarters in Central City for some urgent business. Maybe both.

One woman is still shaking, her daughter pulled protectively close. Her wide eyes do not stray from the fallen men. “Are there _more_ of those people?”

Warrant Officer Vato Falman doesn’t respond.

Still shaking, Winry stumbles drunkenly out of her seat and into the aisle. She nearly trips over a sprawled-out arm, so dazed by the turn of events. Brother has to catch her before she falls flat on her face, and she slumps limply against him, as though she simply lacks the presence of mind to hold herself upright.

“I threw a wrench at a guy in with a gun,” she murmurs, stunned. Her chin falls to rest on Brother’s shoulder.

As Al slides out of the booth, a woman cries out, “What if more of them come? What happens _then_?”

“Ma’am, you’re perfectly safe,” Mr. Falman tries to assure her. But something about the way he says that rings false to Al, or at least too uncertain to be entirely sincere. “There’s no need to panic.”

“I threw a _wrench_ ,” Winry repeats, louder, “at a guy with a _gun_!”

Al rises to his feet, but all the gawkers aren’t paying attention to him anymore. They’re too busy brimming with panic and fear beneath their skin, murmuring fiercely amongst themselves and clutching their loved ones close.

Awkwardly, Brother pats Winry’s shoulder. It’s probably an attempt at comfort, but it’s too stiff to be effective. “Yeah, and knocked him out cold. I always knew you had a swinging arm, but _damn_.”

She breaks out into hysterical laughter. It’s muffled by the fabric of Brother’s jacket. “Oh my _God_.”

One of the men groans. Winry yelps and jumps away. Brother rolls his eyes. Al has to look away, but the ensuing thud tells enough of a story.

Hysteria has begun to emerge in the passengers. The guns have been confiscated by Mr. Falman, but children are crying, women fretting and men worrying. It’s not the hijackers they’re fearing now—it’s the retaliation.

Which _will_ come, if there are really more of them on the train. The number doesn’t quite matter. Once they learn that some of their men have been taken down, they’ll send double the number and take it out on the passengers. And it will be too much for them to handle, and then the civilians will suffer.

And Al—he can’t just sit by and do nothing. He turns to Ed, resolution hardening in his soul. “Brother.”

A similar resolve is reflected back at him. Brother pulls away from Winry and steadies her, hands on her shoulders. But by then he’s already directed his attention to Mr. Falman. “Hey military dude.” The warrant officer turns, looking surprised by the method of address more than anything. “Exactly how fast is this thing going?”

Surprise blooms in Al’s non-existent gut, and Winry sends Brother a perturbed look. Mr. Falman’s brow furrows. “Well, the Limited Express is a Class J-3a steam locomotive,” he begins, with a thoughtful twist to his voice. “It features a single Class MB baggage-mail car, a Class DDL dormitory-buffet-lounge car, six Class PS sleep cars—all of which have different room configurations, mind you—”

“Answer the damn question.”

Oddly enough, Mr. Falman looks more annoyed than perturbed. “Calculating the number of cars and the number of passengers, listed in the manifest, and the time between now and our last departure point, which is...” He pulls out a pocket watch—not a silver one emblazoned with the nation’s symbol, like the one carried by the lady colonel last year—and clicks it open. Whatever he sees must be impressive, because his brows leap to his forehead. “Exactly two hours and forty-three minutes. Judging by this, we can conclude that the estimated speed of the locomotive is close to eighty mph.”

_Why does **that** matter?_

Brother lets out a low, appreciative whistle. “Okay. This is gonna be tricky, then.”

Startled, Winry’s eyes focus on him. “ _What_?”

“Al, are you okay taking Military Dude up the rest of the cars?”

Mr. Falman flashes a mildly offended look at the unflattering term, but the implications bother Al more deeply. Brother makes it sound as though he won’t be accompanying them. “That depends,” Al says cautiously. A Very Bad Feeling prickles beneath steel. “What are _you_ planning to do?”

In response, Brother scrambles back into the booth. There’s a click, and then the window slides open. Wind whistles through the frame. When Brother sticks his head out, his bangs flap so sharply there’s an audible snap to it. If Al had a working jaw, it would probably fall open at the sheer audacity of what Ed is implying.

“ _No_.” The rush of wind causes Winry’s ponytail to flutter, her eyes bright with growing fear. She throws her kerchief down against the tabletop with more force than necessary, but the breeze causes it to stir and shift. “You guys can’t just— These people have _guns_ , dammit!”

“We’re highly trained,” Brother retorts over the roar of wind. His braid streams out behind him, face alternatively curtained by his bangs. “Right Al?”

“Well, yeah.” A tree branch whizzes past and Al suffers a moment of intense panic, because if Brother had stuck his head out a little farther, it could have been taken clean off. “B-But I don’t think you should _climb outside the train_ —”

“No one is going _anywhere_ ,” Mr. Falman intervenes, with all the sternness of a logical adult.

At that moment, one of the hijackers stirs. Winry yelps and immediately ducks behind Al. He is only slightly offended to be used as a human shield. Mr. Falman is quick to pull out his gun again. “We should tie them up,” Al says, because that is the logical next course of action. Right? Right. It sounds logical enough. “Mr. Falman, do you have any rope on you?”

“I don’t make a habit of carrying any,” replies Mr. Falman, voice tense. The hijacker is still clearly dazed. It’s the Drachman-sounding man that Brother slammed his foot into. There’s a giant, purpling bruise forming around the shoeprint, and his nose looks as though it’s been crushed by the impact.

“We’ll have to transmute some, then.” Pragmatic. Try to be pragmatic. If you focus too much on the insanity of the situation, you’ll never get anything done. You need to keep moving, keep progressing. Al turns to the booth. “Brother, do you—”

Ed has vanished. The window is open and the place that once occupied Al’s older brother is conspicuously vacant.

“[...for the _love_ of the Sun and Moon*!]”

“I foresee a court-martial in my immediate future,” mutters the warrant officer morosely.

* * *

_~Central Command_

“Sorry Riza,” comes Gracia’s voice over the line. There’s something sharp and quick in the way she says it, and it’s enough to make Riza’s hackles rise instinctively. “I don’t think I’ll be able to stay put—too many guns.”

“Hughes!” Riza protests, but she’s answered only by a low, droning dial tone. She nearly leaps out of her seat, nearly grabs the nearest thing and _squeezes_. Somehow, though, she restrains herself into only lowering the handset back into its holder.

In the corner of the office, Mustang has taken up residence with a chair, an old phonebook as a makeshift desk, and about a week’s worth of paperwork. He peers up at her as she sets the phone down, the end of his pen paused halfway through an imitation of her signature. Worry flashes briefly in his dark eyes, but when she says nothing, he lowers his gaze again. He knows her well enough by now that if there’s something worth confiding in him about, then she will. But this is her operation and, so far, all she knows is something involving guns.

Something involving guns that makes Gracia willing to abandon her station.

Riza does not yet know for certain if Hakuro’s guards have been overpowered, or if the family has been taken hostage. All she knows is that fight has broken out and Gracia has opted for the road of self-preservation—as she ought to, seeing as its not just _her_ self she’s preserving.

Nothing is definite yet. And that means there is the barest trace of hope.

The phone rings again. Riza lets it for a moment. Mustang glances up again, inscrutable eyes burning into her.

On the fourth ring, she picks it up. It’s probably just Hughes, calling to tell her that everything’s been handled, the commotion’s died down, it was just a brief scuffle. ELF has no chance against a survivor of Ishval.

“Colonel Hawkeye speaking,” she says.

“Colonel,” replies an operator with a steady, practiced voice. Riza much prefers the calm and patient ones to the ditzy, bubbly ones. “You have a call from General Hakuro. He says it’s an emergency.”

The general himself wouldn’t call her _unless_ it was an emergency. He might respect her rank, but not her alchemy, not her ambition or her youth, and certainly not her femaleness. She breathes in, breathes out. Okay, Hawkeye, you’ve been expecting this. “Patch him through.”

There’s a click and a crackle. Whoever is operating the switchboard doesn’t know what they’re doing. Mustang slides the phonebook and paperwork off his lap, setting it down on the floor at his side.

“Hello?” The voice on the other end is not unfamiliar, but it is strained, riddled with unease. “Colonel Hawkeye, is that you?”

She has only ever met Hakuro in passing, and never really had a face-to-face conversation with the man outside of military functions. Still, she knows his voice, knows he has two children and wife that are also on the car with him. Knows that ELF will not hesitate to use them as hostages.

Before she can reply, there’s a crackle, and then a new voice on the line. “Is this Hawkeye?”

The voice is gruff and harsh, lacking the modulated enunciation of a politician. Her brows furrow at the sound of it, and she presses her palm flat against her desk. Her array peers back up at her, stitched in angry red. “This is Colonel Hawkeye. To whom am I speaking to?”

“Oh, you don’t remember me?” croons the terrorist. Mustang rises from his seat, a question in his eyes. “Well, just as well. We grunt-soldiers were just pawns to you higher-ups.”

A dossier of known associates and members of the ELF is at her side. She slides it over and flips it open. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

Whoever speaks gives a low chuckle. “Does the name Calvin Bald ring a bell to you?”

Her hand stills on the page.

Yes, she does know that name. She researched it after Ishval, because she knew so little about her own company that she was ashamed of it. She made her personal business to learn everything about the people assigned under her, the people she was assigned to protect. The people who made it out, and the people who didn’t.

Calvin Bald. Third platoon. Sergeant. Dishonorably discharged for misuse of military medical finances.

...now it makes sense why the manifesto had _her_ name attached to it. “What do you want?”

“I’m speaking on behalf of the Eastern Liberation Front,” he says, which she already knows. “Blue Squad,” he adds, which she didn’t know. “We have your train and your general.”

But no mention of Gracia. No mention of Falman. That, at least, is a relief. “I repeat—what do you want?”

“Don’t play dumb. We lost contact with one of our members—he was delivering our manifesto to you.”

“Funny. It never reached me.” The man had been arrested moments before reaching her office. Ironically, she had been on the phone with Edward Hohenheim at the time—luckily, Havoc and Mustang recognized the ELF member for who he was and arrested him before he could reach her door. Currently, he’s in an interrogation cell, being processed.

Havoc bursts into the room, suddenly, waving a manila folder in hand. “Colonel! I got the documents—”

Mustang raises a hand and shushes him forcefully. Havoc bites down on his cigarette.

“I’ll give you the short version, then.” There’s a threat in Bald’s voice, one that makes the hairs on the back of her neck bristle. “We want our leader back.”

“Is that right?” She makes a beckoning gesture with her free hand. Havoc darts forward to deposit the folder in front of her, then darts back as though fearing she might take her hand off.

“He’s in Prison Eight. Name, Clancy Donovan.” Donovan’s file glares up at her. Age forty-three. Convicted for several accounts of murder, attempted murder, organized terrorism, kidnapping, aggravated assault, etc. Placed on death row three months ago. “Bring him to Central Station. We’ll have ourselves a trade.”

Execution order carried out yesterday.

 _Shit_ , she thinks. “That sounds reasonable enough,” she says instead.

She snaps the file shut. She’s going to have to improvise on this one.

“But let me make myself clear. If a _single_ man, woman, or child on that train is harmed—”

Dial tone.

Pressure buds at the base of her nose as she sets the receiver down. She breathes in and is met with the acrid stench of smoke.

“Havoc.” At the sound of his name, Havoc straightens, alarm flashing across his face. “I _thought_ I told you to lose the cigarette.”

Swallowing, he does so, crushing it under his heel—she’ll worry about the stain that’s left on her floor once there isn’t a train filled with hostages barreling towards Central.

At that moment, Fuery pokes his head in through the doorway, like a gopher tentatively popping out from its tunnel. “Everything alright in here?”

Ignoring him, she sets Donovan’s file aside to examine the sheets of paper beneath. “This is a complete passenger manifest?”

“Yes sir,” replies Havoc hastily. Fuery sends him a nervous look. Mustang’s gaze remains steadfastly fixed upon her.

Fairly standard documentation, divided up by car arrangements. She is quick to find the names of military personnel, and a few that she recognizes as belonging to the ELF. Taking a pen, she underlines the soldiers and circles the terrorists.

Near the bottom, three names leap out at her. Edward Hohenheim, Alphonse Hohenheim, Winry Rockbell.

...just what she needed.

“Lieutenant Mustang.” Mustang straightens a little, but he’s always standing straight, always standing as though a metal rod were strapped to his spine. She steeples her hands. The arrays on the back of her gloves are such a bright, brilliant red. “Go to the station. Consult with Breda on your position.”

He quirks a brow, because she’s playing her high card a little early and they both know it. But the situation is in tumult and they both know how capable he is of reigning in control. Especially in something as unpredictable as a shootout.

“Very well, sir,” he replies. He turns and strides out the door.

Havoc sticks a hand into his pocket, which better not be an unsubtle manner of reaching for another cigarette. At her glare, he quickly withdraws his hand. “I dunno if it’s a good idea to put him in the field, colonel. Guy’s trigger-happy.”

Riza starts sorting through her files. In the wake of all that’s occurred, everything’s sort of melded into one another. “I trust the lieutenant’s judgement.”

“He carries, like, five guns,” Havoc deadpans. “At _least_.”

“ _Where_?” Fuery demands, alarmed.

The second lieutenant’s eyes widen slightly. “No one _knows_.”

This is not the time to be discussing Mustang’s obsessive gun-toting habits. “Shouldn’t you two be _working_?”

Something in her tone must come out particularly sharp, because they both blanch and blurt apologies, then bolt out the door so fast they leave afterimages in their wake. She thinks they might run right out of the office, but she can’t be sure. The door is closed behind them.

With a sigh, she gets her feet. The half-burnt cigarette is still crushed against the tiles. Damnit, Havoc, now the whole room is going to smell like smoke for the next few hours, even _if_ she opens a window.

As she kneels down with a cloth in hand to scrape it off, she inhales a lungful of smoke. Fire and bodies, charred and blackened. Daliha, smoldering ruins. Men she doesn’t even know dying under her command. Most shook her hand when the war ended, thanked her for her inadvertent efforts in protecting them. A few glared at her and wondered at why they were placed beneath someone so incompetent. After all, she hadn’t saved everyone. She didn’t even bother to get to know her own company.

If only she had been as careful then as she is being now.

She bundles up the crushed cigarette, tightly enough until it’s just a wad of white and the smoke-smell is covered up. It ends up in the trash.

According to the timetable, the Limited Express is scheduled to arrive at the station in the next two hours. She’s a war veteran, and knows more about time and battles than anyone else.

An hour and a half is plenty of time for everything to go wrong. Hell, _one minute_ is plenty of time for everything to go wrong.

But _ninety minutes_...

That’s a disaster waiting to happen. And she is _helpless_ to stop it.

* * *

_~Limited Express, Somewhere between Passenger Car 1 and Sleeper Car 3_

There’s something both refreshing and irritating about the stinging chill of the wind raking across Gracia’s face. It manages to deter her hot flashes, but it also makes her eyes water, forcing her to squint. She’s immensely glad she chose to wear slacks today. If train-walking is an art, then she needs extra lessons. Novice as she is, she needs to pause between the cars, the wind screaming around the steel and tugging hard at her hair, her hands growing numb around the cool metal rungs of the ladder on the side. She’s not quite sure _why_ someone put them there, but she is very appreciative. They’re quite convenient.

So convenient, in fact, that they let her catch the kid who comes tumbling out of the air.

Her first indication that something is wrong is a yelp of surprise, one that isn’t her own. It’s just as she’s ready to climb back up onto the roof, so her hand pauses on the top rung. Then there’s a blur of black and red and gold that goes soaring over her. Instinct has her reaching out before it can fall over her, and her fist closes around soft red fleece.

The kid she’s captured, by sheer luck, is heavy as hell. She clutches the back of his coat with an arm that strains and feels as though it will be dislodged from its socket. It doesn’t help that he thrashes, yelping in alarm. His coat isn’t fastened and if she’s not careful, he’ll slide right out.

“Hold still!” she manages to grind out. She’s not sure if she hears him over the roar of wind, or if he just abruptly goes limp because he passes out.

Mustering all her upper-body strength into one limb, she _heaves_ him away from the cliff. He’s not a particularly large kid, she notices, but he’s _compact_ , densely-built.

There’s a dull _thwang_ as a white-gloved hand grasps the rung next to her face. His white-trimmed black sleeve billows in the wind, revealing a blinding glint of metal.

Automail. That explains why he weighs so much.

She was right in her earlier assessment. He’s a boy, young enough that puberty hasn’t quite hit yet but not too young so as not to be called an adolescent. His surprising long hair is braided back in a thick golden-blond rope that billows out from behind. The wind throws his bangs back, revealing a soft, young face with a darkish complexion. Not quite the same deep, olive skin one might associate with Aerugo, or the duskier complexions that come from Creta—his is more of a tarnished gold color, deep and desertic, which makes the bright blond color of his hair rather striking. A pair of startlingly bright eyes peer back at her with widened alarm.

Aching pain still throbs in her shoulder. It will be a while before her muscles forgive her for this particular endeavor. Because the wind is softer here, she doesn’t have to shout quite as loudly. “You okay there, kid?”

Surprised, he turns to her. His catlike yellow eyes—she has _never_ seen eyes that color, maybe an ocher-tinted brown, but not _yellow_ —rove her for a moment before settling back on her face. He blinks, as though he can’t quite comprehend that his savior is a well-dressed pregnant woman. “Uh, yeah.”

Well, sh _e_ can’t really blame him for being bewildered. Most people look at a woman with child and think her delicate. “Why on _earth_ were you up there?”

“Hold on,” he says, rather than answer her, and then climbs down the ladder to stand uptight on the platform.

It’s hard to make out with the wind screaming quite so loudly in her ears, but she thinks those might be curses spilling from his young mouth as he sinks to a kneeling position, splaying his left leg out in front of him. Her brows rise as he starts removing the Velcro from his boot, and then shucks it off to reveal a gleaming steel foot, an impeccable replica with all the toes and the contours in the right places. An automail leg in addition to the arm, and judging by the detail applied to the casings, it isn’t cheaply acquired, either. Quality work for two missing limbs—maybe more, since his sleeves do a wonderful job at concealing the prosthetics she’s already identified.

To her further surprise, he curls his leg up and cups the heel, one hand thumbing at the steel chassis with a look of intense concentration on his face. Just as she opens her mouth to inquire what, exactly, he’s hoping to achieve, he tugs and removes what appears to be a nub of crumpled steel from between the heel and the rest of the foot.

Okay. She climbs down from the ladder and stands over him because that _better_ not be what she thinks it is. “Is that a _bullet_?”

He doesn’t seem to hear her, staring at the hopefully-not-a-bullet dumbly, like he can’t quite comprehend its presence. Oddly unperturbed, he glances up at the roof again, looks down at the maybe-a-bullet, the roof, then the yeah-that’s- _definitely_ -a-bullet. He blinks. “...okay. Winry is going to _kill_ me.”

“Hey, _kid_.” That earns her an annoyed look, which is really quite inappropriate. She should be the only one annoyed here! “Where you shot at?”

“Uh.” Nervousness flashes across his face at that, like a child caught by his mother with one hand in the cookie jar. Hastily, he glances back at the bullet, then at her, then flicks the bullet away. It _ping_ s at is bounces across the platform. “Well— I was, uh, on the roof, see. And the noise startled me, and, uh...” He looks down at his foot again, probably not quite comprehending that someone shot at him. Nonetheless, he grabs his boot and slips it back on. “Anyway! It got caught in my leg, so I’m fine, you don’t need to worry about that...”

Asinine, Hawkeye said. Gracia sees it now. “And just what were you doing on the _roof_?”

For a moment, he looks embarrassed, but it’s quickly eclipsed by a scowl. He leaps to his feet, jabbing a finger at her. “What are _you_ doing out of the car?”

She crosses her arms. Touché. “Hunting terrorists.”

His jaw falls open, his finger wilting, which is really quite hypocritical, given the fact that he just dug a bullet out of his prosthetic foot. She wonders which bothers him more—the woman thing or the pregnancy thing.

“You should go back to your seat,” she informs him, not unkindly.

“Lady, _you_ should go back _your_ seat!” Judging from the way his gaze lingers on her abdomen, it’s the pregnancy thing that bothers him more. Well, good to know that not all prejudices pass down to the next generation.

Her bangs whip into her face. She brushes them out of her eyes with one hand. “Are you a soldier?”

The question seems to bewilder him, and she doesn’t blame him. It’s rather offensive to consider that the military might recruit prepubescents. He scowls. “Of course not.”

“That makes one of us, then.” They pass underneath a tunnel and everything goes black for a moment. The wind doesn’t stop, but it gains an extra chill, a sharp stony scent.

When they re-emerge into daylight, the kid wears an expression of sheer bewilderment. “ _Huh_?”

Gracia offers her hand. “Major Gracia Hughes. Nice to meet you.”

Silent by virtue of being positively flummoxed, he takes her hand and shakes it. Her fingers press against the white leather suede, but his hand is hard and firm, steel that does not yield to pressure. She wonders how that occurred, how he lost enough of his limbs to warrant automail replacements. Not only is it not cheap, even subpar craftsmanship costing quite the pretty penny, but loss of limb below a joint like the knee or elbow usually has most people turning to regular prostheses. Automail is unique in that it can accommodate joints that are nearly identical to flesh limbs, along with a dexterity that most prostheses lack. Furthermore, the surgery for getting the port installed is painful as hell, even for just one—having two installed, like this kid, is goddamn dangerous. Gracia knows because she had to ask around as research for this mission, concerning rumors of a particularly troublesome member.

“This is usually the part where you tell people your name,” she says, not unkindly.

“Oh, uh—it’s Ed.”

It fits him, in a strange way. Something about its monosyllable nature and the blunt sound of the “d” adds a touch of stubbornness to it, oddly enough. It has a nice, strong sound. “That’s a nice name.”

He eyes her face for a moment, allows his gaze to slide up and down her body, then pauses on her face again. Befuddlement creases his brow. “...you don’t _look_ like a soldier.”

“Well, we were _trying_ to keep a low profile.” Her hands are starting to ache from clinging to the rail for so long. “We have a very important passenger on the train. The kind that warrants military protection.”

“Is _that_ why these goons are here?” Raw fury passes over the boy’s face for a moment. It makes his eyes smolder, like the sun as it sinks into the horizon at sunset and setting everything in the general vicinity ablaze. It actually startles her. Such an intense expression on someone so young. “So, what, they decide to drag a whole trainload of people into their fucking politics?”

Something about his righteous indignation strikes a chord in her. It’s not the first time she’s seen such an expression, and nor will it be the last. These are the sorts of faces new recruits, all of them with red-hot and impassioned blood pumping through their young hearts, make before something wildly reckless and stupid follows. She has a very sudden inkling that leaving him to act unchecked could end Very Badly. “...you’re not going back to your seat, are you?”

“Like hell!”

She thought as much, and stifles a groan. “How well can you fight?”

“I took out a buncha the bastards in one of the cars back there, so.” He says that like it's impressive instead of horrifying, and even has the nerve to smirk. “Pretty damn well.”

That—

Okay. Well. That confirms it. No _way_ is she leaving this kid to run wild on his own. He could get himself or others hurt or worse. Someone needs to _reign him in_.

...why is it that she always gets stuck with the sucky jobs? She’s bringing life into the world, dammit! “How open would you be to tag-teaming, then?”

Evidently, this is the wrong thing to say, because Ed _grins_.

* * *

_~Limited Express, Passenger Car 4_

Sure enough, the car does not avoid retribution. A fresh couple of men arrived in an attempt to reclaim power, but panic seized them at the first sight of Al and the ricochet from their machine guns quickly served to debilitate them. They were tied up quickly enough, their guns confiscated and alchemically dismantled. Now they groan, bullet holes in their limbs.

On principle, Winry always carries bandages with her. She was raised by a pair of doctors and an automail surgeon, and there’s healing in her blood. What a poor Rockbell she’d make if she didn’t.

Most of the gauze was transmuted into rope by Al so as to tie up the hijackers. What’s left of it isn’t very much, but she does the best with what she has. Fishes out the bullets and applied pressure to the wounds, then binds them up in strips of white cloth. There isn’t enough for her to dress the wounds a second time and she can transmute blood out of the fabric but she doesn’t trust alchemy to sanitize it, so she hopes they arrive at Central Station soon enough.

“Just leave them!” shouts one woman.

“Let the bastards bleed!” shouts another.

“Whose side are you _on_?” someone demands.

Sure, these are bad people who threatened them at gunpoint. Sure, they are thugs and villains and they probably don’t deserve her help. But it’s not about “deserve”. It’s never about “deserve”. Part of her training as an automail engineer involved learning how to be a surgeon, and that involved the Hippocratic Oath. And that has never been about “deserve”.

These people don’t seem to care, much less understand. Their fear has evolved into anger, into paranoia and blind hatred. They scream and spit and some of them denounce her as a terrorist abetter, if not a terrorist herself. Insults are flung in her face. Things are thrown at her head. She ducks what she can, endures what she cannot dodge. Buries herself in applying disinfectant and dressing the wounds.

Warrant Officer Falman and Al have already moved on ahead. They’re going to free the other cars, save other passengers from the terrifying reign of more hijackers. It’s Warrant Officer Falman’s job, and he doesn’t hesitate to fulfill it, bound by a duty and vow of his own. Al has no such obligations, but he does it anyway, because he’s the sort of person who doesn’t sit by while people get hurt. Ed is—god knows where, walking on top of the train because he’s an _idiot_.

So that just leaves her, then.

Here she is, a stalwart defender, a last bastion. Left behind again, cleaning up the mess. Dressing the wounds of unconscious hijackers, being yelled at by strangers who are willing to condemn her for her unbiased act of generosity.

Her hands come away bloody.

There are guns on the train. People with guns. Bad people with guns. And her idiot best friends are running right into the middle of it.

(Daedalus couldn’t stop Icarus from falling)

She’s really, really, _really_ come to hate being left behind.

* * *

_~Limited Expression, Engine Car_

Ed hears the impact Major Hughes’s foot makes against a hijacker rather than sees it.

One of the bastards is pinned against the wall, courtesy of a push-knife she pulled out of seemingly nowhere ( _scary_ ), and the third is on the ground from a well-timed punch to the jaw from his metal fist. Freed from gunpoint, the engineers are quick to turn their burly brawn against their would-be captors and leave behind massive bruises. He is happily willing to admit that satisfaction blooms in his gut at the sight of these criminals receiving their comeuppance.

Balance momentarily lost, Hughes stumbles a little after the kick, but she recovers quickly. Her short brown hair is heavily mussed and tussled from the wind. She heaves a sigh as she touches her stomach. “That’s a _lot_ easier to do when you’re not pregnant.”

There’s an acrid note to the scent of smoke in the air that comes from the pile of coal nearby. Air-conditioning is lacking in this particular car, so sweat is already gathering on Ed’s forehead. It’s not even refreshing against the sharp, biting windchill of topside the train, instead it’s muggy and oppressive and makes him severely regret his coat. The automail port in his shoulder is twinging faintly, which sends a flutter of nervousness through him, because he did recently just bust the thing and Winry warned him to report any and all malfunctions in the wake of that breakage. It’s probably nothing, but if she ever finds out—ho boy.

One of the engineers, the skinnier one, turns to give the two of them a befuddled, appraising look. “You two are all kinds of badass, aren’t you?”

Pride swells in his chest at that. Ed crosses his arms casually behind his head and grins brightly. “Hell _yeah_ we are!”

Though there is a pleased look on Hughes’s face as well, she takes the whole thing in stride with a humble nod and a coy smile. Looking at her, it’s almost easy to forget that she just singlehandedly took out a guy with three inches and almost forty pounds on her. “It was really no big deal. I’ve faced worse.”

“You _have_?” The other engineer looks a little doubtful, and Ed really can’t blame him for it. Hughes has sort of a housewife vibe about her. ...then again, so does Teacher, and Ed has learned the hard way that housewives are to be _feared_.

“Yes, but that’s a story for another time.” Her face settles back into a mask of serious contemplation, the kind that looks like a commander at war calculating their opponent’s next move. With one foot, she pokes at the unconscious form of a hijacker. “I don’t suppose there’s anything we can use to tie these guys up with, is there?”

The engineers exchange a look that doesn’t seem to promise anything. “We’d have to look around...”

Blue skies blur beyond the window. Now that they’ve freed the engine car, they can focus on saving the general and his family that are captive in the first-class car. It’s only an hour or so until they arrive in Central, and if they don’t diffuse the situation by then, then they risk allowing that chaos to spill out into the civilian crowds at the station.

“You sort that out,” Ed says, already taking two steps towards the window. “I’m going on ahead.”

“What?” He can feel Hughes’s bewildered gaze flash over to him. “Wait a second—”

The rest is lost to the wind in his ears and the blue sky swallowing him up.

Central City’s silhouette is visible in the distance, a massive, glittering metropolis deposited on the horizon by some god of innovation. Sunlight flashes across massive buildings, creates a reflection so sharp and pointed that it almost seems to blind you, if you aren’t careful enough to look at it a certain way. It looks so much larger than East City did, with billows of smoke rising up in thick, dark ribbons and tall, sky-reaching buildings that rise up to jab themselves in the heavens. Against the vivid, grey-blue backdrop of the windswept autumn sky, it seems stark and dazzling, like a dream wrapped in steel and impossibility.

He pauses a moment, just to marvel at it. Dad took him and Al plenty of places, but never to the Central State. Everything there always seemed so distantly grandiose. It was something you talked about, this thing that everyone knew, in some abstract sense, but never really _knew_. Ed always assumed it would be like East City, but bigger. He didn’t expect it to sprawl vastly over the horizon, somehow somnolent and invigorating all at once.

BANG

Something whizzes past his face and explodes against steel. He yelps and ducks instinctively, which allows three more projectiles to blur overhead. Sparks flower from the impact points.

_Does **every** one of these guys have a gun?_

Impulsively, Ed hooks his leg into the nearest rung and releases his hold on the metal bars. The flesh of his palm stings against steel.

Crackle, blue light. The heady ozone smell of transmutation. In his head, the Gate whispers—

**(—the circle is the guide and the energy flows within it—)**

Wait.

...he’s doing it intentionally.

**(—you are component of the universe, a One in the All, it flows through you too—)**

Another bullet buries itself above his head. He jumps and nearly loses his balance in the process, wind-milling his arms in an attempt to keep from falling off the side. Somehow, through a great feat of core body strength, he manages to pull himself forward. His hands slap the side of the car.

**(STEEL—HEMATITE CHROMIUM VANADIUM)**

Oh, what the hell. He’s already in the middle of a transmutation. He might as well follow through—it’ll hurt more to just pause halfway through.

**(TRANSMUTE)**

He can hear the telltale crackle-snap-spark of transmutation coming from the roof. Can see the electric flare of light spiraling into the air. By the time he reaches the room, the last sizzle of energy atop the cannon is dying down.

 _Damn, that was fast!_ he thinks as he settles in behind it. The man with the gun is too flummoxed by the sudden appearance of the cannon to bother shooting. _Normally this’d take me five minutes, tops!_

“Light’s out, asshole!” Ed chirps brightly, then pulls the transmuted steel-wire ripcord.

The following _bang_ is downright deafening. He scarcely has time to clap his hands over his ears before the cannonball comes barreling out. It connects with the gun-wielding guy, a resounding crack against the skull that makes Ed wince sympathetically. It’s not loud enough to signal any serious or permanent damage, but the sound is far from appealing.

“Hey _Ed_!” He glances over his shoulder and is met by the sight of Hughes sticking her upper body out the window. Her hair is thrown back by the wind force, revealing the glow of amazement that illuminates her face. “You never told me you were an _alchemist_!”

“Didn’t think it was relevant!” he calls back.

She opens her mouth to respond, but at that moment an engineer shoves her aside and throws his upper body out the window. Clapping a hand down on his hat so it doesn’t go flying, he shouts, “Hey, kid! Don’t mess with the tender! It’s the life of this train!”

“Sorry!” he apologizes, just as an idea forms in his head. He peers back at the porthole from which the gun-wielding man emerged. Judging from the layout of the train, that car has to be first-class, where the general and his family are being held captive. The ringleader is probably there too.

_The tender..._

The engineers are _not_ gonna be happy about this, but it’s far too good to pass up.

“Hey Major Hughes!” Hughes perks up a little, and Ed grins back at her. The kind of grin that Winry calls “malicious” and makes Al perform a nervous double-take. “I’ve got an _idea_!”

* * *

_~Limited Express, Luxury Car_

For whatever reason, the ELF members have abandoned the switchboard. Gracia tucks her gun back into her purse and slides the window closed.

Beyond the door, vigorous conversation is carried out between the terrorists. A particularly striking man catches her eye, long dark ponytail and the beige jacket draped across his form just as noteworthy as the way he barks orders, the scathing edge in his tone ringing with authority. When he turns his head to one side, she catches a glimpse of his profile, the eyepatch strapped over his eye. There’s something slightly familiar about him, though she can’t quite place his face. Instead, her attention is drawn to the single sleeve of his jacket that hangs limply. She can’t help but notice that he’s the only one unarmed.

Or, at least, not openly brandishing a weapon.

This is going to be tricky, she knows. It has to be timed perfectly, carefully. Involves a great deal of flexibility and agility. Otherwise she might end up with a bullet to the face.

Unconsciously, her hand drops to her stomach. This is _definitely_ the last mission she takes before mat-leave.

There’s a flash of blue light on the wall. She catches a glimpse of the transmuted result—a speaker with a pair of eyes and a single, pointed yellow stripe of hair, for some odd reason. The raucousness of Ed’s voice masks the sound of her slowly easing the door open a crack. All of their backs are turned away from her. They don’t even notice.

“You have no right to drag these people into your personal politics!” Ed rails. He has a strong sense of justice, that one—and an alchemist to boot. No wonder he came into contact with Hawkeye.

Of course, Gracia can’t help but wonder about the suit of armor that’s supposedly accompanying him, but that can wait for a time when they aren’t surrounded by terrorists with guns.

The ponytailed man snarls with all the rancor and fury of a cornered animal. “You’re one of _Hawkeye’s_ agents, aren’t you?”

That makes Gracia quirk a brow. It’s not what he says—that’s ridiculous, Hawkeye has a healthy distrust of everybody and doesn’t employ outside agents—but _how_ he says it that gets her. His _voice_ strikes a chord with her. She is suddenly beneath the blazing desert sun, constricted by a woolen uniform with a captain’s marks on her shoulders and dealing out commands to drafted soldiers who, unlike her, don’t have the virtue of the Academy’s training to help them survive. There are explosions in the distance, Hawkeye’s flames on the horizon. Alchemy tearing the neighborhoods apart. Soldiers returning to the base with bullet holes and blood.

One man in her regiment loses an eye to a piece of shrapnel. She doesn’t remember his name, but she remembers the sound of his screaming.

...huh.

Her reverie is interrupted by the snap-crackle of transmutation. The muscles in her back and legs tense as a metal nozzle bursts from the door. It forms lightning-quick, fast enough that it would give you a massive edge on the battlefield.

“Okay, passengers! Hold on tight!”

 _That’s my cue._ Gracia darts out into the car with all the speed afforded to someone who survived in Ishval by ducking for cover and avoiding flying debris. By the time she’s noticed, the door to Hakuro’s private booth is slammed shut.

Just in time, too. Water spills out from the pipe and in minutes, the car is flooded. Through the window, she gets a lovely view of the eyepatch man struggling vainly against the current. His three companions do the same, although they are significantly less successful. There’s something almost comical about it, the way their cheeks puff out as they struggle for breath and the way their eyes bulge in surprise. She’d been a little skeptical of the plan when Ed first relayed it to her, but it seems she doubted him for nothing.

“Major Hughes!”

Gracia turns. Hakuro and his family are huddled on the couches, a pair of tied-up guards at their feet. They look to be unconscious, the cocky newbies who claimed they could handle anything. She stifles a sigh as she turns her attention to the family themselves. Mrs. Hakuro hugs her son and daughter close to her, the way any good mother would when there’s danger afoot. The daughter is teary, the son trembling. General Hakuro himself is clutching his ears, scarlet wetness glimmering between his fingers.

He stares out the window of the door with some alarm, eyes wide and disbelieving. His earlier fear, if there was any, has transitioned into sheer incredulity. “...what is going _on_?”

“Prodigy alchemist I met, sir,” she says, by way of explanation. She’s already dug her gun out of her purse, though the safety remains on because so far, there’s no need for it just yet. “Rather brilliant. I believe he’s acquainted with Hakweye, somehow?”

A wet noise sounds, and then all of a sudden, the water drains in a great whirling rush. Tentatively, she opens the door, gun still clutched in her hand. Her thumb remains poised on the safety lock.

With a too-loud thunk, Ed drops down from the ceiling, grinning wide, looking brazen and golden and victorious. “Well, I’d call that a success.”

“That may have been a touch cruel,” she muses. The eyepatch-man lays barely conscious on the ground, drenched to the bone and coughing water. His companions have vanished somewhere, the door in the back slightly ajar for some reason. She can make out the faint sounds of grunts and shouting from beyond. Huh.

Ed shrugs, still grinning devilishly. The glint in his eye is rather chilling. Scary kid. “But it _worked_ , right?”

Hakuro gawks openly at the kid, and she can’t really blame him for it. For all his skill and panache and mischievous eyes, Ed doesn’t look older than ten, if she had to guess. His long hair and oversized coat don’t really help the matter much, just highlighting the largeness of his bright amber eyes. “ _This_ is Hawkeye’s alchemist?”

“...kinda.” Ed blinks, then turns to her. “Is this the general?”

“Ed, meet General Hakuro. General, Ed.”

“How, _exactly_ , are you acquainted with Hawkeye?” asks Hakuro, a touch skeptical.

“Oh, _well_...” A sudden calculative look enters his eye, something sly and devious and a touch spiteful. “She’s something of a _mentor_ to me, see. I’m planning to take the State Alchemist exam—y’know, when I’m older.”

And Gracia has to frown because that doesn’t sound _at all_ like Hawkeye. Maybe three years ago, when they were both drunk on idealism and had yet to learn how broken the military was, when Hawkeye thought that being a State Alchemist was an accomplishment rather than a curse (her words). But now, with her hard-won cynicism and her deference to childhood innocence, Gracia has a hard time believing her friend would willingly sponsor a young boy into a program she’s lost faith in.

Plus, there’s the way he says it, placing a certain emphasis on some words as though to punctuate their impact. People don’t usually stress words like that unless they’re trying to make a point, particularly in an argument. Hm.

Before she can say anything, a gunshot rings out. Everyone behind Gracia jumps and there are shrieks of alarm that sound like they come from young children. Ed ducks, eyes wide. Gracia instinctively clicks the safety off her gun.

“One moment,” Ed says, and brings his hands together with a distinctive smack of flesh against steel. He’s already running forward by the time Gracia makes out the blue sparks flying around his fingertips.

He vanishes from her view. She blinks. Gracia has spent enough time around Hawkeye to know how alchemy works—there’s a circle, it flashes with light and electricity and gives off a smell reminiscent of electrified copper. And then the actual alchemy happens.

But here’s the thing: There was no circle.

She would have _noticed_ , if there was a circle. It would have lit up, a momentary flash of icy blue-white, and then the transmutation would have occurred.

But she saw no circle. Nothing lit up. There was just a crackle of energy around his hands, the way it should be _after_ a circle lit.

There was _no circle_.

After this all over, Hawkeye has some _explaining_ to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terminology:  
> *"For the love of the Sun and Moon!" = The sun and the moon are sacred in Xerxean culture, considered either deities or divine forces. The two main gods in the Xerxean pantheon, the Red King and the White Queen (both based off alchemical concepts, btw), are a sun deity and moon deity respectively.
> 
> So in the manga and '03, the hijackers don't really have a motivation other than hating the government, and I wanted to incorporate a more personal grudge against the military. Specifically Hawkeye. ...I'm not sure if it worked.
> 
> On another note, I am low-key falling in love with Gracia's perspective. And writing Riza is a surprising joy.
> 
> Fun fact: the structure of the train is based loosely off the real life 20th Century Limited, a train that ran across the US in the early twentieth century.
> 
> If anyone has any questions or needs clarification, please feel free to ask. I am always ready to answer any questions.
> 
> Sincerely,  
> The Immortal Moon


	18. The Colonel’s Protégé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Congratulations, Edward Hohenheim,” says the colonel, each syllable sharp enough to draw blood. “You are officially the youngest candidate in history to take the State Alchemist Certification Exam.”

_“Child, don’t follow me home_  
_You’re just too perfect for my hands to hold_  
_If you choose to stay, you’ll throw it all away”_  
—Halestorm, “Innocence”

 

_~Limited Express, Outside the Luxury Car, 1911_

Al and Mr. Falman have fallen into a pattern since they began their arduous trek up the length of the train. Al opens the door to take the initial brunt of the bullets, for his unfeeling steel form can—unlike Mr. Falman—endure the hail of ammunition without fear of serious injury. Once the magazines are emptied, Mr. Falman comes in brandishing his gun and demanding they surrender, adding in all the stern authority of a proper soldier to put weight upon the command. More often than not, they do surrender, and then they’re knocked unconscious to further neutralize the threat. If they do resist, well, Al has found that their guns are their best asset, whereas his fists are his.

This is the last car and urgency quickens their pace. Moments ago, the train plunged into a dark tunnel lit by flickering halogen lights, a precursor to their arrival at the station. Even with the other cars being liberated, it all means nothing unless the Hakuro family is safe. They’re the main hostages—though Al maintains that _anyone_ being held at gunpoint is completely unacceptable.

But when Al opens the door, a rush of water comes spilling out. He immediately grabs Mr. Falman by the arm and shoves the warrant officer behind him as he sidesteps the flood. Along with it, three men dressed in conspicuously dark clothes—one of them blond and pale and gangly, another dark-skinned and broader, a third with a mild complexion and wiry limbs—come tumbling out.

The men immediately crash against the railing at the end of the car. Mr. Falman brings up his gun, but it’s a useless gesture, as the men are unconscious, their guns discarded. Sickly pale light shimmers off wet skin as they lie in a sopping heap.

“What the hell?” Mr. Falman mutters.

Water pools on the small platform, bright and shimmering beneath the halogen lights. Al looks at the men for a moment, then sighs. “...I have a feeling my brother was involved somehow.”

* * *

_~Limited Express, Luxury Car_

Ed takes a swipe at the eyepatch-wearing man with the blade of his automail, but the terrorist reacts quickly and ducks. He gets a perfect snapshot of the feral rage on the man’s face, his wild burning eyes and soundless snarl and the grimy-looking mustache that coats his lip.

The next thing Ed knows, pain clacks through his skull. His vision flashes dark-light for a moment—he can practically _hear_ Winry’s screaming about his concussion and how he should be _careful_ , dammit—and he stumbles, balance lost. Something solid presses against his back. His vision clears just in time to see a flash of metal, and he instinctively brings his hands out to block.

Steel meets steel. Flesh meets flesh.

He looks down at the ground, where the man’s beige cloak is discarded on the floor. The bladed end of his automail strains against a construction reminiscent of a machine gun. Rather useless as an arm, but a powerful weapon, a hybrid between deadly killing efficiency and prosthetic limb.

“You’re just a _brat_ ,” hisses the man. His face is close enough to Ed’s that he can see is assaulted by the gritty green color of the man’s eyes and the oily stench of his breath. There’s some wild about his expression, furious beyond explanation. “They’re feeding _kids_ into the military’s chophouse now?”

In the doorway of the family’s car, Hughes stands at the ready, one hand on the swell of her stomach and the other fiddling with the trigger. He can see the urge to shoot, to help him... but the reluctance, at the same time, not to fire a gun within close proximity to him. She doesn’t have a clear shot, either—the bastard’s metal arm is wedged between his temple and the barrel of her gun.

(he’s sort of glad, because he doesn’t want to get blood all over him again)

“No one’s feeding me _anywhere_!” Guy’s strong, he’ll concede that. Ed may be highly trained, may be strong from having to fend for his life on Yock Island and endure the spartan training regimen of his contentious teacher, but the bastard has a grown-up’s strength pitted against his own twelve-year-old body. His flesh arm strains to maintain the precarious equilibrium. “I make my _own_ decisions.”

For a long time, they both push against one another, might against might. Ed tries to dig his heel in, tries to push back, gain some ground. He’s pressed against a wall and has nowhere to go. If he doesn’t start pushing the bastard back soon—

Said bastard glares at him with a ferocious smolder in his eyes, and a for a moment, he thinks the man looks almost... _horrified_. But then his expression shifts to one of sheer, unadulterated anger. “Little word of _advice_ , kid—I used to _be_ in this military. I served in Ishval, lost my eye, and after that—Well, they could overlook it, as long as I was pissing on cue, but I _was damaged goods_ to them.”

“Nice _story_ ,” Ed grinds out. He can _feel_ the gears in his arm straining. His flesh leg braces against the wall in an effort to gain more leverage, to push back harder, but the bastard is _strong_.

“Oh there’s more! See, I busted up my arm on an assignment and I wanted to get it amputated. Upgrade to automail.” The breath in Ed’s lungs stalls and he peers at the glimmering metal plating of the weaponized prosthetic with new eyes. Seeing this as encouraging, the bastard grins, his mustache bristling. Ed can see every one of the man’s yellow teeth. “But they wouldn’t sign off on it! Figured I was too _broken_ , between my eye and my arm—so after the procedure, they slapped the words ‘dishonorable discharge’ on my papers and _scrapped_ me! How ‘bout that?”

Something crawls up Ed’s throat and gets trapped there, curling around his windpipe like a snake constricting its prey. His own metal arm glints back at him, almost mockingly so. “Damaged goods”...

(what good is an Icarus that cannot fly?)

But then he sees the terrified faces of the passengers he shared a car with, sees Winry’s trembling form. He sees Majhal and his madness, Klaus bound to a chair, the faltering marionette that used to be Liesel. And fuck, no matter what their reasons, they were all the same—careless bastards who think that the world should fall at their feet.

“You think that _justifies_ endangering all these people?” Both his hands clench hard around the bastard’s limbs, the real and the fake. The remainder and the upgrade. Heat flashes in his lungs, his vision, his muscles straining desperately. He plants his metal heel _hard_ against the floor and _pushes_. “It’s _one_ thing to target the general, but these travelers are _innocent_ , dammit!”

All of sudden, the bastard is pushing him _back_. The joint in Ed’s elbow is _screaming_ , and his flesh elbow hits the wall. His steel elbow follows soon after. He’s pinned against the wall, struggling not to be crushed against the pressure. The bastard’s face is in his, breath rank and hot on his cheek.

“Don’t talk like you don’t get it.” Spittle sprays across Ed’s forehead. “You’ve got a steel arm! You understand! Without it, you’re _weak_ , and they won’t want you!”

Colonel Hawkeye’s gaze flashes through his mind, fire and brimstone, sulfur and conviction. _The choice is yours_ , she said, and hell, he doesn’t want to go back to that wheelchair. He doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life hobbling around on prosthetics while Al remains in a hollow vessel.

Ed flashes back to his own operation, to pain so intense and overwhelming he can barely remember it. All he can recollect is an endless blur of pain and voices, Granny’s and Winry’s, fire in his nerves and screams in his throat that he dared not express. He thinks about stumbling drunkenly on a foreign, too-heavy leg, thinks about trying to find his balance again with his weight turned lopsided by a steel arm, his center of balance thrown entirely off-kilter and the pain that came from the prosthetics tugging at his still-sensitive stumps. Learning how to pick things up in a hand that couldn’t fully close, couldn’t feel anything with steel fingers. The stark absence of something that should have been there, should always be there—reaching out with an arm that was simply _gone_.

All he sees, for a moment, is his own blood on the floor, Al’s empty clothes lying discarded, the twisted mass that _isn’t Dad_.

This bastard _willingly_ gave up his arm. Cut if off, traded flesh for cold, unfeeling steel. Just to prove that he could still fight. And Ed did, too, in a way, but—

He also did it for so much _more_ than that.

“ _Clearly_ you don’t know _shit_ about me!”

There’s a sudden crunch, and he looks in amazement as the bastard’s prosthetic crumples beneath the crushing grip of Ed’s false fingers. Bolts and gears and scraps of steel flash through the air—the terrorist’s eyes widen in horror.

Huh. Looks like the guy swung for _cheap_ prosthetics.

Using the leverage of his flesh foot braced against the wall, Ed swings his automail foot upwards. There’s a _crack_ as his steel heel crashes into the bastard’s jaw.

With a howl, the bastard stumbles back, blood spraying through the air. Ed falls forward with a gasp, the muscles in his arm and thighs aching too powerfully to even move—

The bastard recovers far faster than Ed anticipated. Blood dribbles from his jaw, and from the ruined face of his prosthetic a blade swings out, gleaming sharp and deadly. The lethal tip is aimed at Ed’s throat and he should move, he needs to _move_ —

Something flashes through the air, and then the bastard howls in pain. The hilt of a push-knife juts out from his cheek.

Hughes’s green eyes are wild with urgency and desperation and protective fury. The gun is still clutched in one hand, though that arm curled loosely around the swell of her abdomen in a vaguely protective manner. The other hand still outstretched from having thrown the knife, fingers shaking slightly. More blades glitter dangerously at her hip.

“Nice aim!” he calls out. His muscles still ache like a sonovabitch, but he manages to pull himself upright. Throbbing pain has settled in his ports. Winry’s gonna yell at him, he just _knows_ it.

Blood arcs out from where the bastard rips the knife from his face. The blade is dark-red, the heavy stench of blood thickening the air alongside the detritus-smell of transmutation. Nausea rises in Ed’s throat because the _last time_ those two scents met—

A massive metal fist collides with the would-be hijacker’s face. The weight of his body hits the door with a reverberating _thud_ , one that would, in any other circumstance, make Ed wince sympathetically. It is followed by the tinkle of the discarded push-knife joining him on the floor, which elicits a spark of satisfaction. Massaging his aching shoulder, Ed turns to the hulking figure that has manifested beside him and grins widely.

“Great timing, Al.” Ed claps and transmutes the blade on his automail back to normal. Knowing Winry, she’d be pissed if he left it as is.

Al whirls around. His soulfire eyes burn with something that is not quite disapproving, but is very much concerned and frazzled and exasperated beyond words. “You,” his little brother begins flatly, “are an _idiot_.”

“What!” What the _hell_? He saved the day, dammit! ...okay, Al showed up at the last second, but it was still mostly him!

“You _know_ what!” A leather finger is jabbed in Ed’s face. “You are so _unbelievably_ reckless—"

“You came up here too!” Ed points out. “Are _you_ reckless? _Hm_?”

“Don’t turn this around on _me_!”

“ _You_ turned it around on you!”

“That doesn’t even make any _sense_!”

With the bastard dazed, Hughes and the silver-haired military dude converge upon him with their guns drawn. There’s something cool and stern about the woman’s face. The man’s—Ed can’t remember his name—back is to Ed, so he can’t make out his expression. But that doesn’t really matter, because the guy is cornered, he’s caught, all his cronies have no doubt been taken down by Ed’s extremely competent little brother and everyone is _safe_.

All of a sudden, the door pops open and the bastard stumbles hastily out of the car, away from the twin gunpoints. Hughes and the silver-haired dude immediately pursue. Ed looks at Al, and Al looks at Ed, and a silent understanding of urgency passes between them in a way it only can between brothers. Al’s clanking gait harmonizes poorly with Ed’s uneven footsteps as they race over to the door.

Being the less bulky (do _not_ read as: smaller) of the two, Ed manages to reach the door first. Hughes and the silver-haired dude, seeming to sense his presence, move far enough away from the door for him to pass. There’s a small dip in the platform that Ed did not account for, so he staggers forward, balance momentarily lost.

“Stop right there.”

Ed freezes instinctively. The voice, tempered and bladed and soft but ringing with power, brings him back to a terrifying woman alchemist with onyx eyes and a Flamel tattooed on her collarbone. But there’s something cooler about this voice, something sharper and less rough. Refined, in a way—not unlike how a blacksmith fashions raw material into the deadly precision of a blade. It chills the blood in his veins, makes his hackles rise.

Then he suddenly remembers—a woman at his bedside with cropped hair and a knifelike way of speaking as she demanded an explanation. A woman with a cool, professional mask on her face that gives away nothing as he tells her about the horror of human transmutation. A woman who stands in the doorway, highlighted against the daylight like a silhouette, with burning russet eyes.

A low, derisive laugh. It comes from the bastard. “Hawkeye.”

Slowly, Ed looks up. Her blonde hair is a little longer than he remembers, coming to her jaw in a sharply cut bob that seems to highlight the bladed seriousness in her eyes—eyes that are exactly as he remembers them, piercingly fierce, terrifying in their ability to slice through your defenses with very little effort. But it _is_ Colonel Hawkeye, her stately blue uniform and the ramrod posture of her shoulders seeming to fashion her into a human dagger poised to impale the nearest person at the slightest provocation. An entire array of military personnel is stationed behind her in meticulous formation, guns out and at the ready, dozens of gloved hands lingering on the triggers. Anxiously, Ed realizes that he probably shouldn’t be standing right behind the terrorist. If any one of these guys are bad shots...

Her eyes flicker to him, linger long enough for apprehension to clench in his belly, then return to the bastard.

“I see they gave you a promotion.” The man’s blade is aimed at her shoulders. Ed can’t see her epaulettes from here, but he can assume that their design now reflects her rank. “You clearly pleased the Top Brass for your work in Ishval, _eh_ Flame?”

Hughes clicks the safety back onto her gun, but tension is still wrought in every muscle. By contrast, the silver-haired man keeps his finger hovering over the trigger. There’s a slow, conspicuous creak as Al leans over Ed.

“Bald,” she says coolly, which must be his name. Crap name. “You have one of two options. Option one, you surrender peacefully and live. Option two, you resist arrest and end up dead. Your choice.”

The apparently-named Bald brandishes his blade. “You think I’m scared of you?”

“If you’re smart, you should be.” Her level tone is eerie, almost, and she calmly raises her hand. There’s a bloody red array stitched into the back of her pristinely white glove. “But in case you aren’t, I have a little extra insurance. You were in Ishval—no doubt you’ve heard of ‘Deadshot’.”

Tension thickens in the air. Whatever component makes the atmosphere crackle like a summer storm, it is lost to Ed, shared only by these adults and the knowledge that creates this joint understanding between them.

Whatever it is, it’s enough to make the Bald-guy nervous, make his shoulder tighten and has him bringing his arms closer to his body. “...he’s not here.”

“He is.” Hawkeye inclines her head subtly, a challenge in her eyes. “And he _never misses_.”

Very subtly, Hughes’s gaze flicks behind her. Ed follows her gaze but sees nothing.

Hawkeye inclines her head further forward. The intensity in her eyes is downright unsettling. She doesn’t blink, either. “And then there’s _me_. You make one wrong move, one false step—you _know_ what I’m capable of. You’ve seen it.”

A frustrated growl rumbles in the back of Bald’s throat. The silver-haired man clicks the safety off his gun and sheaths it in his jacket. Hughes does not, but she does lower it. It seems they’re already aware of how this is going to go.

“It’s your decision,” says Hawkeye grimly. “Choose wisely.”

Seeming satisfied with the situation, and firmly aware of the outcome, the silver-haired man squeezes past Al in order to get back into the car. Dazed, Al sidesteps to allow him past, but does not take his eyes away from Hawkeye. Neither can Ed, to be honest. There’s something... _hypnotic_ about her intensity.

Slowly, and every muscle seeming to rebel against the action, Bald raises his hands over his head.

She lowers her hand and nods to an officer behind her, a lanky man with shaggy blond bangs. He strides towards Bald with a pair of handcuffs gleaming in his hand, but Ed stops watching at that point because Hawkeye’s attention suddenly shifts to _him_.

He hadn’t thought her too intimidating when they’d first met, when he was bitter at everything and wrapped protectively in his own suffering. Now, though, he lacks this extra layer to soften the deadly sharpness of her gaze. An involuntary shiver runs down his spine.

“Perfect timing, Riza,” chirps Hughes brightly as she tucks her gun into her purse.

But Hawkeye doesn’t seem to hear her, striding forward with a frightful calm. Though her face is neutral, there’s a thunderstorm swirling inside her gaze. An irrational sense of panic floods Ed, and he turns around with the intent to duck into the relative safety of the car—

Something grabs his ear and _tugs_. He yelps, struggling, wind-milling his arms, anything to get him free—but nothing works. His heels grind as he’s dragged back to the platform.

Then, suddenly, the movement halts. Heart thundering in his throat, he chances a look upwards. Hawkeye’s stony face looms over him. Her eyes remind him of the precise, razor-sharp edge of a scalpel, something that can peel away flesh with ease and attack all the sensitive nerves underneath. His insides twist with dread.

“I see you’re on your feet, now,” she says neutrally. But she enunciates each syllable _very_ carefully, and that is somehow more terrifying than anything.

Pain sparks through his ear as she _pulls_. He grits his teeth. The lights hanging from the ceiling glare down at him unrelentingly. “This is a little _unnecessary_ , don’t you thi—”

She narrows her eyes further and the words dry up in his throat. “I believe I told you _not_ to come to Central.”

“What?” Ed can’t see Al’s expression from this angle, but he can imagine the urgent look his brother his sending him. And oh boy, Ed needs to move this conversation somewhere out of the public eye, and _fast_.

“T-Technically,”—he tries to fold his grimace into a disarming smile, but her grip is too tight and he’s not sure he’s successful—“you didn’t say _anything_ about coming to Central!”

Hawkeye’s silhouette cuts darkly against the blinding white light. Though her face is perfectly composed and icily cold, her carnelian gaze _smolders_. “You _know_ what I meant.”

But it seems the colonel is not without a sense of mercy, because she releases his ear a moment later. Ed quickly puts as much distance between him and her as possible, massaging the throbbing spot. He doesn’t duck out of her gaze, because to do so would be an act of surrender and Edward Hohenheim does not surrender to _anyone_ , not even scary lady colonels with eyes that could skin you alive with almost no effort. Instead, he shelters himself somewhere close to Hughes, just a little bit behind her, while jutting his chin out with as much defiance as he can muster with the aftershocks of fear tremoring down his spine.

As he massages his abused ear, he tries very, _very_ hard not to shrink noticeably beneath Al’s stare.

It is at this moment that Hughes takes this moment to intervene, setting a hand on his hip and smiling in a serene fashion. “So I take it you two _do_ know each other.”

“In a manner of speaking.” Credit where credit is due, Ed has never met anyone who can say one thing and mean _I have never been so infuriated by the stupidity of another human being_  quite so expressively. Not even Teacher could pull it off so perfectly. Very scary, but very impressive.

Al lets out a squeaky little noise. Ed resists the urge to cling to his brother for dear life.

Before anyone can say anything else, a thump sounds from behind, drawing everyone’s attention to the roof of the train. A man has suddenly materialized there, perched effortlessly on one knee. There’s a rifle slung haphazardly over one shoulder, something long and designed specifically for sniping, held steady by white-gloved hands. Dark hair drips into his forehead in a set of choppy, feathery bangs that hang just over a pair of inscrutably dark eyes. He wears the pants of the military uniform, loose-fitting and navy blue, and the same sort of black leather combat boots worn by all the other officers. However, the blue jacket is abandoned in favor of a white collared shirt and a couple holsters strapped to his shoulders that are occupied by handguns. There’s something familiar about the man, somehow—about his face and the way his dark eyes rove them cautiously—but Ed can’t quite place him.

Ed squints, his fear abating in favor of this new arrival and recalling the colonel’s earlier threat. _...”Deadshot”?_

“Seems we have some unexpected guests,” remarks the man conversationally. He has a rather smooth way of speaking, a charming way of smiling, that belies the calculative look in his eye. With deceptive grace, like ink spilling out from a pen, he slides down from the train roof and lands effortlessly at the colonel’s side, which makes Ed jump and tense instinctively. Hawkeye seems relatively unperturbed by this display—in fact, no more than a touch irritated by the interruption.

Hughes, also, takes the man’s sudden appearance in stride. In fact, her smile widens, and her eyes sparkle with sudden delight. “Well hello, Roy! Where were _you_ hiding?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.” The man turns smoothly on his heel and then suddenly there’s a gloved hand in Ed’s face. A white, pleasant smile emerges on the man’s mouth. “I don’t believe I formally introduced myself last we met—First Lieutenant Roy Mustang.”

Hazy memories of a shadow standing at Hawkeye’s side, all those months ago, flitters through Ed’s mind. He hadn’t been able to connect the two people before, but he feels the two images come into focus as one single person.

Al takes the man’s hand before Ed does and gives it a tentative shake. Uncertainly, Ed does the same. Lieutenant Mustang’s grip is oddly firm, and he can feel calluses in places that are different from the farm-weathered hands he’s used to.

“Lieutenant.” Hawkeye side-eyes the lieutenant for a long moment, gaze stern and tempered, but now lacks the same deadly intensity that she leveled on Ed. Mustang doesn’t seem riled up by it, only returns it with a smooth, unperturbed smile. Finally, her gaze slides away from him and back to Ed, and regains that glaring quality. Ed swallows. “Do you mind alerting the medic? I’m sure there are a few injuries here and there among the Blue Squad members, courtesy of the Hohenheim brothers.”

“You say that like it’s a _bad_ thing,” Ed mutters. Sure, a few people got banged up here and there, but they were the _bad guys_ and none of the injuries were civilians. That’s pretty damn impressive, okay!

The strength of her glare intensifies, remarkably. He suddenly feels like an ant (not an ant! _bigger_ than an ant!) trapped under a magnifying glass—he swears he can almost smell the smoke of his flesh cooking. “You shouldn’t have even _been_ on this train.”

“G-Good thing we were, though!” Goddamn, that is one unnerving glare. Teacher had to yell at you before the fear kicked in, but all Hawkeye has to do is _look_ at you and make you want curl up under a rock. Ed tilts his chin up in an attempt to maintain his composure, or at least put up the pretense of it. “Right Al?”

Unfortunately for him, Al has been too busy examining the situation, eyes carefully lingering in places in an almost analytic manner. He turns expectantly, praying that somehow, someway, his brother will pick up on the desperation Ed is silently radiating, the silent SOS signal he aims in Al’s direction. Please, please, _please_ —

“I’m missing something,” his little brother decides aloud, which is absolutely _no help whatsoever_.

Ed can feel Hawkeye willing him to burst into flames. Apprehension and fear mix with desperation, and he turns urgently to the other woman at his side. Hughes, with cropped brown hair framing her soft face and her gentle green eyes, seems infinitely more sympathetic. “We helped out loads! Hughes, tell her how we helped!”

“Well,” Hughes starts thoughtfully, “I will admit that things were resolved much more quickly thanks to them.”

Ed decides that he likes Hughes, very much. Awesome lady. “See!”

“ _Although_...” Her brows furrow into a mock-thoughtful frown. “I think the engineers would appreciate it if you un-alchemized that pipe connected to the tender.”

...never mind. Everyone in the military is horrible.

Hawkeye closes her eyes and inhales strongly through her nose, as though gathering every scrap of breath just so she can scream at him. Ed suddenly feels like he’s staring down the barrel of a gun.

But by a stroke of sheer luck or perhaps fate, the trigger is never pulled. Instead, her attention is directed towards the emerging figure of stately General Hakuro, who somehow seems to exude composure despite having a bloody hole in the lobe of his ear. Though he looks tired and seems inclined to collapse on the nearest piece of furniture, either a couch or a bed or whatever’s available. But he holds himself upright and puffs his chest out in a manner that suggests poise as he strides proudly in front of the silver-haired man, who trails reluctantly after him like a lost puppy. At the sight of him, Hawkeye, Hughes, and Mustang all straighten and salute with breathtaking precision and a unity that surely must be rehearsed. Warily, Hawkeye’s gaze flicks over to Ed, but she is quick to look away.

“General,” Hawkeye says by way of greeting. She lowers her hand, and her eyes linger on what looks to be a bullet wound in the general’s ear, though she makes her examination of it very subtle. “Lieutenant, the medic, if you will.”

Mustang nods stiffly, his earlier ease transitioned into something stiff and unyielding. He turns and marches off obediently.

Hakuro touches his ear, as though suddenly remembering that it’s there, but he keeps his gaze steadfastly on Hawkeye. There’s something grudgingly appreciative about his expression. “I suppose I owe you a thanks, for preventing what could have happened.”

She inclines her head forward. “Nonsense, sir. The credit _really_ goes to my team.”

“And your little protégé,” adds the general, sending a conspicuous glance in Ed’s direction.

Ed tenses. Oh shit, that was blunter than he anticipated.

Maybe because Hawkeye suddenly glances his way, losing her composure to blink, once, openly. Somehow, the loss of composure is more unnerving than her glare. “My...”

“Brother—” Al starts. Ed silences him by jabbing his elbow into his little brother’s breastplate—and then promptly decides to never do that with his flesh arm again because _sonovabitch_.

Hawkeye sends a look in Hughes’s direction. The brunette woman only arches a brow, which seems to be enough for the colonel, because she smooths her expression out as she turns back to Hakuro. “Yes. Speaking of which—Falman?”

The silver-haired man tenses anticipatorily.

“Could you perhaps take my...”—she hesitates around the word, eyes narrowing in Ed’s direction, as though deciding exactly how she would serve his corpse to the funeral house. A shiver tiptoes down his spine—“... _protégé_ and his brother somewhere? I’ll deal with them _later_.”

Oh boy. That does _not_ sound good.

Falman salutes, then turns to them. Whatever his thoughts are on the matter, he keeps them to himself, lids them beneath a calm professional mask. “Come on then, you two. We might even be able to find your friend in all of this mess.”

* * *

_~First Central Station_

After she is collected from the train—well, that’s really just a nice way of saying she was torn away from her patients by rough hands and sneering soldiers—Winry is thrust into a makeshift interrogation cell. A pair of soldiers leer over her, their identical uniforms nauseating to look at for too long because it brings back memories of when the wounded came in from Ishval. It was the first time she ever had to operate on someone, and between that and the memory of soldiers delivering the dreaded telegram...

They leer over her, demand to know if she has any ties to the anti-establishment movement, why she would dare to treat the wounds of such dangerous, disgusting criminals. She is confined in an uncomfortable chair, pinned behind a great metal table that feels like a chasm set between them, her on the side of desecration and them on the side of justice. Any attempts at providing a testament, or attempting to explain herself, are only met it with a fierce incredulity, a swiftness with which to condemn or find flaws. When she gets to the part where Ed physically drop-kicked one of the men, the one with a sergeant’s epaulettes slams his hand against the metal table so hard that it rattles, and the word get physically tangled in the web of her vocal chords.

Mutely, she takes in the hand just inches in front of her, the look in the sergeant’s eyes that can only be described as the unadulterated disgust of a soldier for his enemy. The enemies that they shoot down so callously, without any forethought or regard for the sanctity of life.

She has unwittingly aligned herself with the enemy, in their eyes. What exactly that means, she doesn’t quite know yet, but there is a sinking feeling in her gut that suggests trouble far worse than being grounded for a couple weeks. She doesn’t know if Ed and Al are okay, either, if they also stuck in a shiny metal room somewhere, sitting in an uncomfortable chair behind a tin table. Everything in her hopes not. Ed would not be able to handle this gracefully—she imagines he would be shouting until his voice echoes off the walls.

“You expect us to _believe_ ,” hisses the sergeant, his eyes glinting low and malicious beneath the brim of his cap, “that a twelve-year-old boy managed to take down a fully-grown armed man?”

She nods without words. Fear curls in thin tendrils around the prongs of her ribs. She hasn’t done anything wrong—not really. Healing is not a crime. There are no handcuffs binding her wrists and they surely won’t convict her for the simple act of helping someone.

...right?

“He could be big for his age,” proposes the other man. She thinks the nicer man might be a corporal or something, but she isn’t very good with military epaulettes, so she might be wrong. Still, he definitely seems the gentler of the two. A shame he’s not the one in charge of this—well, interrogation, because that’s what it _is_. Of all the crazy things that has gone on, now she’s being _interrogated_.

In any other situation, Winry might have found it in her to giggle into her palm at the ridiculousness of this statement. Ed being called big for his age—being called “big” in general. So much ridiculousness, piling upon itself in great, looming mounds. A suit of armor that radiates Al’s presence, carefully-constructed automail masterpieces replacing Ed’s limbs. Officers on her doorstep, a lady colonel with burning eyes and the lieutenant like the shadow cast by gathering rainclouds. Watching the white house on the hill next door swallowed up by fire and brimstone like a condemnation of god (the end of an era).

Risembool, falling away into the distance like waking up from the kind of hazy, pleasant dream that leaves nothing more than a blurry sensation of contentment. Something you can almost remember, but find that you actually can’t, because it was just imaginary, in the end.

Bumble Hollow and the marionettes that plague the dreams behind Winry’s eyelids. Liesel’s screams filling her ears, the sight of Ed’s throat being pressed beneath a shiny steel blade, the howl that Lebi had released from deep within the chasm erupting in her soul. Winry can still hear it, still see it. It makes her hands tremor.

The train, rushing across the countryside. People screaming at her as she fishes bullets out of bleeding flesh-wounds. The wind roaring through the window Ed had jumped out of. Her wrench discarded on the floor where she threw it at a man’s head in terror. And now—

Where are Ed and Al. Where _are_ they.

The sergeant sends his partner a withering look. An audible click signals the other man snapping his jaw shut. Advocating for terrorists is bad, after all.

(and that’s what they think she is)

A squeak of hinges signals the opening of the door. Fresh anxiety keeps Winry from raising her head, but she observes her tormentors through the fringe of her bangs. Annoyance flashes momentarily across the sergeant’s face as he looks up—but it is quick to evaporate, a change swiftly overcoming him and his companion. Something like submission washes over them, or as close to submission as you can get when you stand up straighter, click your heels together, and salute in a sharp, practiced manner like you’re trying to impress someone.

Oh God. That means it’s someone higher up. Higher ranked. They’re going to arrest her. Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God.

Her hands shake. She curls them into fists around her skirt as she dares to raise her head—

—and is surprised beyond words that, rather than some stuffy general, she is met with the sight of Mr. Mustang.

He looks exactly the same as he did last year—same sweeping dark bangs, same charming curl of his mouth, same dancing dark eyes. The only real difference is that he’s wearing gun holsters strapped onto his shoulders and the jacket of a military uniform is thrown sloppily over his shoulders. She blinks, scarcely able to believe it. The odds.

“Gentlemen.” The lieutenant’s tone is pleasant as he takes a few long strides into the room, but there is a slightly darker touch lingering beneath. He stops directly in front of her, on the other side of the table, his silhouette cutting against the claustrophobic metal. “May I ask why you’re interrogating a young girl?”

Air on her tongue alerts Winry of the fact that her jaw had fallen open. Blushing, she clicks it shut. She must have looked pretty dumb for a second.

“Sir!” Even in submission, the sergeant has an obnoxious way of speaking, like a dog snarling at an intruder—not because of danger, but just because of unfamiliarity. “We believe that this girl may have connections with the ELF, sir.”

Winry can only make out Mr. Mustang’s profile, but she glimpses the practiced smile on his face flatten into a thin line. Fresh nerves choke at her throat, ties her windpipe into knots. Last year, at their house, Mr. Mustang had been—not _un_ pleasant, per se, but she still has a bruise on her temple where someone threw a projectile at her head, remembers shouting and screaming and profanities tossed her way. And he’s a _soldier_ , a believer in strict sides, in a black-and-white mentality where there is a clear bad guy. He’ll probably see her as an abetter of state enemies, the same way these others already do.

Instead, while a sternness does overtake him, he directs it at his fellow soldiers rather than her. “You believe that an eleven-year-old girl—”

“Twelve,” Winry mumbles, then quickly clamps her mouth shut.

“—a twelve-year-old girl is connected to a terrorist organization.” He does not miss a beat in amending himself, nor does he use her interruption as grounds for damnation.

The sergeant’s brows furrow, suddenly uncertain. He glances at Winry as though just seeing her for the first time. “W-Well—”

“What is your name?” Beneath that calm is an underlying warning. A whisper of _you’re getting close to ending up on my bad side, and you don’t want that, **trust** **me**_.

Now it is nerves that causes the sergeant to hesitate. He swallows, and it is amazing to see the man that had been so inclined to use force and intimidation falter in the face of true authority. “S-Sergeant Becker, sir.”

“Well, Sergeant Becker.” Winry can almost taste the scent of petrichor in the air, the precursor of the storm gathering behind the lieutenant’s largely neutral façade. It is dark and dangerous, beautiful to observe but not something you want directed at you. “How about you stop wasting time and resources interrogating _innocent civilians_ , and go back to searching actual security threats. I.e., your _job_.”

“B-But sir!” the maybe-corporal protests, which causes Mr. Mustang to narrow his eyes just subtly enough to send a chill down your spine. Ignoring the look the sergeant sends him, the lower-ranked soldier blurts, “She treated injured members of the ELF, sir!”

Crackling in the air, the ends of an exposed wire sparking, electricity and copper, tension and anticipation. The bruise on Winry’s temple throbs distantly. She can still hear the voices of the passengers, screaming that she is a traitor, a terrorist, and things so much worse that she would rather just forget them.

Mr. Mustang turns his back to them, and the very act alone seems like a rejection. “That is even _more_ reason not to lock her up like a criminal.”

After everything that has just gone on, Winry is so wrung out that she isn’t really expecting anything anymore. But this—the military has a special mold inside her mind, blue uniforms and torn-up countryside and rudely demanding Granny treat their wounded, whether she liked it not. And this does not fit that mold.

“Now, are we _done_ here?” She can’t help but notice that Mr. Mustang’s epaulets are those a first lieutenant—she tries to remember if that was his rank last year, or if it was raised since she last saw him. Then she wonders to herself why that might matter.

Uncertain, the maybe-corporal shoots the sergeant a searching look. If the sergeant notices over the way he keeps clenching and unclenching his jaw, as though chewing on some protest he dares not voice, then he does not acknowledge it.

Finally, the sergeant’s shoulders grudgingly relax. Submission. “...yes, sir.”

“Excellent.” That amicable smile returns to Mr. Mustang’s face, as though it never left in the first place. Although this time, Winry notices a bit of smugness in the twist of his mouth, something like a diffuse satisfaction. He turns his attention fully to her, and she notices there is nothing at all hard about his pitch-dark eyes. “Are you alright then, miss?”

Heat pricks at the back of her eyes. Sniffing, she nods.

She feels his gaze rest on her a moment, feels the weight of it like a velvet curtain wrapped around her shoulders. It is oddly comforting, in a way, and isn’t that odd. He’s a soldier, dressed in the same blue as the men who tried to intimidate her only moments ago. He is cut of the same cloth as the people who shattered the relative peace of Risembool during the war, wears a uniform like the man who dragged her parents away to the warfront.

And yet...

“Anything else I can do for you?”

His voice is kind.

Wordlessly, she rubs at the dampness on her lashes. Maybe Ed is right. Maybe she’s too timid, cries too much. “I... I had luggage...”

“Of course.” She glances up through her bangs just in time to see him turn back to the sergeant. “Becker, I assume you confiscated her belongings to search for evidence of anti-establishmentist ties?”

“Er, y-yes, sir—”

“Please have it returned to the young lady. Thank you.” Winry has never heard the words “thank you” used as a warning before. He has it down to an art.

A synchronized salute preludes the soldiers racing out the door faster than her eyes can follow. She watches their forms disappear beyond the doorframe in a blur of navy blue.

It is perhaps a true mark of the insanity of the situation when her first thought after their departure is, _They’d better not have messed with my tools._

That one thought acts as a chisel, slamming into the wall she had unintentionally set up to keep the hysteria at bay. With that hysteria, however, comes an overwhelming sense of relief—a relief at being alive, at having a beating heart and lungs that draw breath despite the fact that she had thrown a _wrench_ at a man with a _gun_. It bursts from the banks of her subconscious to wash wholly over her, soaking into the parched patches of her soul that desperately craved some sense of reassurance. Her nerves are still raw, still aching and chapped, stress fractures, but at the very least she has reached a lull in the storm, a moment of calm that she had so desperately needed.

Breath is sucked into her lungs almost greedily, trembling in her throat as she leans back in the uncomfortable plastic chair. How strange it is, to be sudden grounded after being tossed this way and that. It’s almost dizzying, really.

The lieutenant’s presence falls like a shadow over her, cool and calming, a patch of shade to offer relief from the blazing sun. “We’ll be joining up with your friends soon enough.”

The last knot of anxiety uncurls in her stomach. That means Ed and Al are alright. That means, even with her stuck in this damn room, they had been okay.

“Thank God,” she mumbles, and isn’t entirely sure who or what she’s referring to in that moment. Whatever the case, she is grateful.

* * *

_~First Central Station_

Officers in deep blue act as herding dogs for the bleating herd of civilians, grouping them by passengers who have just been rescued from the terrorist-occupied train and those who have not yet boarded. Others are corralled off in an entirely different part of the station, giving testimonies or being searched precautiously. Every platform crawls with blue, enough so that anxiety hums in the back of Winry’s lungs. She grips the strap of her duffle bag, now safely secured upon her person, with unconscious tightness.

None of the soldiers have yet to look her way, mostly glancing at Mr. Mustang rather than her. His presence somehow swallows hers, wraps her in the shadow of his protection just by proximity. But that doesn’t mean the passengers don’t look—she catches recognition alighting across some of their faces, and she has to look away swiftly before it transforms into something darker.

As if sensing her unease, he spares a glance over his shoulder. There is something like reassurance in the twitch of his lip. “A little tip, Miss Rockbell. Look like you belong, and they won’t bother you.”

“Really?” That doesn’t sound right.

“Works for me.” He says that like he’s sharing a private joke.

Still, the offer is kind and it bolsters her a little, allows courage to prop up her spine as she follows after him. People are clustered mainly around the trains and the main platforms, leaving the space at the ticket tellers’ up front startlingly vacant. It is there that Warrant Officer Falman waits, then gives a salute when he sees Mr. Mustang.

Without a word, the warrant officer guides them over to a set of wooden benches that populate the platform in spatters. Most are unoccupied. But one is.

A glaringly red coat is draped over the back of it, a beacon against the drab beige colorscheme. Ed fidgets in place, one leg thrown over the other and the end of the grounded foot twitching with nervous energy. Al’s great spiked form is leaned slightly over him, saying something she can’t hear from this far—the sight of them, though, untouched and not locked in some metal interrogation room fills her with relief. It’s all she can do not to run to them right now, but her pace does quicken unconsciously and overtakes her guide, who slows enough to dismiss Warrant Officer Falman and to thank him.

Also accompanying them is a young woman Winry does not know, her lovely face framed by soft caramel-brown hair and a hand placed gingerly atop the gravid swell of her abdomen. There’s a strange juxtaposition in how she holds herself—primarily there is a stiffness in her spine that speaks to endlessly going through the machinations of military drills, which belies the tenderness in how she moves her head whenever she turns to speak to either of them.

“...going to be shut down for the day,” the woman is saying in a gentle manner, though Winry only catches the tail-end. “But you’re welcome to stay at my place in the meantime.”

Both brothers straighten at this offer of gratuitous generosity. Ed’s eyes go round in disbelief. “Wait, _seriously_? You’re— You’re _okay_ with that?”

“Blame my husband,” replies the woman in a laughing manner. She catches Winry and Mr. Mustang in her peripheral and something like a mischievous smile plays across her primrose lips as they approach, coupled by an innocuous flash of white teeth. “He’s a people person, you see.”

“I have a feeling you talked him into it more than anything,” rumbles Mr. Mustang in a cordial manner. It’s the same tone Dad used to tease Uncle Van.

At the sight of her, the Hohenheim brothers immediately straighten. While Al’s steel visage cannot emote, Ed’s face becomes a warfront of relief versus annoyance, as though he cannot decide which is more appropriate. And knowing the stubborn mule that Ed is, annoyance is going to win out, because he refuses to let anyone believe he might care about anything.

“That’s quite the accusation,” the woman remarks but without any real offense behind it. She then turns to extend a hand to Winry, her mouth curled into a welcoming smile. “You must be Winry. Major Gracia Hughes.”

The “major” part throws Winry off for several reason—the lack of uniform and the swollen womb among them—but when she grasps the woman’s hand in her own, she finds there are callouses there. Callouses consistent with fingering a trigger and a safety lock. Yet the olive-green hue of the woman’s irises gives a soothing touch, like being wrapped in the quite solace of Risembool’s rural hills. Not at all like the intensity that had raged in the lady colonel’s auburn eyes or the velvet hardness in Mr. Mustang’s dark ones.

“Hi,” is all Winry can manage, stunned into silence as she is. How strange that a soldier can seem so... kindly, for lack of a better word. “Nice to meet you, um, Major Hughes.”

“Oh sweetie, just call me Gracia.” Before that particular shock can sink in, the major turns to Mr. Mustang and again that mischief glints in her eyes. “By the way, Roy, Maes asked me to tell you—”

“‘Hurry up and get a wife’,” Mr. Mustang deadpans at the same time the major chirps.

The lieutenant exhales heavily through his nose in a manner that suggests old exasperation. “Tell Maes to keep his nose out of other people’s business, if you’re going to carry messages.”

“He’s a journalist, Roy. Having his nose in other people’s business comes with the territory.”

“What _took_ you so long?” Ed is asking. He has manifested in front of her when she wasn’t paying attention, bursting into existence in a whirl of black and gold intensity. The look in his eye suggests that annoyance has won out in the battle, but relief has not been fully cowed, allying with worry for a planned counterattack. “We’ve been waiting for _ages_.”

Al’s creaking form settles somewhere behind, and when she glances over her shoulder at him, she sees that he does not bother to conceal his worry. “Ignore him. Are you okay?”

To find that they are as worried about her as she was about them is... reassuring, somehow. She just prays they don’t notice the bruise on her temple, concealed largely by her hair. “I’m fine. The soldiers just wanted to ask me some extra questions is all.”

Immediately, Ed’s face twists in a scowl that is hardly pleasant. “Are you— They took _that long_ —” His eyes narrow and she gets the sensation that he will punch someone in the throat if left unchecked. “Okay. Where are these assholes? Someone needs to yell at them to get their _asses in gear_. No wonder they did shit against the bastards on the train!”

The annoyance in his tone reignites the outrage and thrumming, indignant worry that had rubbed her nerves raw back on the locomotive. Her nails bite into her palms as she recalls the window left wide open, his space conspicuously absent while the train charged inevitably towards its destination, uncertainty and anticipating carving out the space of each moment.

She snags him by the sleeve and marches him over to the bench before he can muster a protest. By the time an objection is half-formed in his throat, she has already shoved him into a sitting position.

“Winry—”

“You,” she snaps, jabbing her finger in his face—he goes cross-eyed to stare at it, blinking as though he cannot comprehend its existence, “are going to _sit_ there, _quietly_ , because you have a _concussion_.”

This, of course, causes the major to whirl around and stare with eyes that are round as dinner plates. “You’ve a _concussion_?” she demands, and looks vaguely disturbed by how apathetically Ed returns her horror.

“Had,” Ed retorts.

“ _Still_ _have_ ,” Winry corrects fiercely. He grimaces at that, and that only serves to make the outrage in her veins throb with fresh red heat. “Still recovering! Which is why you shouldn’t be fighting _terrorists_ with _guns_ and _breaking your automail_ —”

“I _didn’t_ break my automail, dammit!” As if to emphasize this point, he waves his non-damaged arm in her face.

Huffing, she swats it away. So what if he came out unscathed this time. He’s still an _idiot_.

“It was still stupid, Brother,” Al adds. And it is nice to have someone agree with her—

— _except_.

She whirls around so sharply that her ponytail comes back around to smack her cheek and immediately jabs that of her finger straight in his helmet-face. Or, at least as far up as she can aim it while arching up on the balls of her feet. “Which is why you don’t get to say _anything_ , because _you_ ran off too!”

Unlike Ed, Al draws back as though her finger is a knife aimed at his jugular. She imagines that his eyes would be wide, if they were capable of it. “But I was just—”

“No buts!” Winry adjusts the strap of her bag and finds some strange spark of satisfaction when Al draws back, clearly expecting the wrench. Good. “You’re _both_ idiots.”

On the other hand, she can feel Ed’s petulant stare burning into the small of her back. “Are you _done_?”

The sheer _nerve_ of him! A pang of fresh fury has her whirling on her heel, only distantly registering the sting of her ponytail against her cheek and the scowl written on his face. “No, I’m _not_ done!” He heaves a groan and it is only by virtue of the aforementioned concussion that she does not bludgeon him bloody with her spanner. “You went _on top of train_! Could you be _any_ stupider?”

“That’s a _very_ good question.”

The voice that spearheads its way through the air is not unlike the sound of a gunshot in the distance, a sharp shattering noise that immediately pricks at your survival instincts. She turns around and is, to her surprise, met by none other than the lady colonel from last year. The uniform seems to make the woman’s shoulders broader, makes her form more imposing. This, coupled by the sharp cut of her blonde hair and the cold, stately glitter of her silver earrings and the pocket watch at her hip, gives her a frightful intensity. A shiver of apprehension instinctively runs down Winry’s spine.

And it is perhaps even more telling that Ed stiffens, face flashing warily. Subtly, he attempts to scoot back, just a smidge, which really says a whole lot more.

 **_God_** _,_ _Ed, what did you **do**?_

It seems Winry isn’t the only one who senses the building sense of anticipation in the air. Both the lieutenant and the major grow somber, the former’s expression smoothing into a neutral, professional mask while the latter furrows her brows into a worried frown. “What happened?” asks the major with just a touch of urgency.

When the lady colonel comes to a halt, it is somehow even more menacing than when she was approaching, slow and steady like a predator stalking prey. Though her face is turned towards her military colleagues, her bladed auburn gaze is tilted more in Ed’s direction. And he shrinks in on himself, just a bit. “I’ve just spoken to General Hakuro—and I’m not sure what you told him, but he’s taking it seriously.”

Okay. So... context would be helpful here, Winry decides. Very helpful indeed.

Thankfully, Al, with a slow creak, turns to the lady colonel and asks, “You mean the part where he said he was your protégé?”

See! Context! And you know it’s accurate because Ed winces subtly—not subtly enough, mind you, just enough to confirm that he had, in fact—

...wait a second.

He did _what_?

“Among other things,” replies the colonel in a manner that cannot be described as anything but ominous.

Ohhhh Great Spirits in the Stars. What does _that_ mean?

“Congratulations, Edward Hohenheim,” says the colonel, each syllable sharp enough to draw blood. “You are officially the youngest candidate in history to take the State Alchemist Certification Exam.”

... _what_.

That has to be a mistake. It has to be. Winry’s heart pounds in her ears. There’s no way Ed would—would join the _military_. Right? He’s stupid but he’s not _that_ stupid.

“You’re joking,” Mr. Mustang says, sounding vaguely horrified.

Frowning deeper, the major plants both hands on her hips. Worry and pensiveness mix together on her face, though she looks significantly less alarmed by this announcement. “Hakuro’s actually going to vouch for him?”

He’s not that stupid.

“So it would seem.” There is rue in the colonel’s tone. When she turns her head to the side, both her earrings and the pocket watch flash. “Attaching my name to his ‘credentials’ likely didn’t help.”

This makes Mr. Mustang’s brows furrow, just a touch. The grim expression suits him just as startlingly well as his affable smile. “Or it may have helped too much.”

With a thoughtful hum, the major cups her chin with one hand, lips pursed. “Well... I can’t say I don’t see where Hakuro’s coming from. Circle-less alchemy doesn’t strike me as a common skill...”

He’s not that stupid!

Both Mr. Mustang and the colonel turn to her with varying degrees of surprise. “What,” demands the lieutenant flatly while his superior looks over Winry’s shoulder to stare uncomprehendingly at Ed.

“...you didn’t know.” The major says it matter-of-factly, but she looks baffled by this.

The colonel’s surprise does not last long, and she is quickly snapping her gaze back to the major with narrow eyes. “I did not.”

“Huh.”

...he’s not that stupid.

“Al,  _put me down_!”

They all turn at Ed’s indignant yelp and are met by the sight of said idiot alchemist being suspended almost a foot off the ground by Al’s massive fist enclosing around the back of his jacket. It gives him the look of a petulant kitten who has gotten grabbed by the scruff as punishment. And just like a petulant kitten, Ed hisses furious curses in both languages, eyes flashing wildly around the space the way a cornered animal’s might.

But Al—the metal plates of the arm that he uses to hold his brother captive is _trembling_. Winry swears she can see steam whistling through the cracks. “ _You_ were trying to _sneak away_!”

For the record, Ed makes no move to deny this, and this serves to make anger coil hard at the base of Winry’s throat. He writhes desperately, kicking his legs in an attempt to eradicate the empty space between his feet and solid ground. His struggle spurs something in her, a spark so bright and sharp she fears what might happen if it were to catch fire.

Seeming to exhaust himself, Ed settles for going limp and glaring at Al through his bangs. “ _Do not_ disrespect your older brother this way, Alphonse!”

“I can if he’s being an _idiot_!” Al retorts venomously.

Ed’s angry thrashing resumes. “ _Especially_ not then! _Now_ _PUT ME DOWN, goddammit_!”

Abruptly, Al lets go and Ed crashes onto the ground, flat on his butt, in a graceless pile of clanging automail and indignation. Not a force on earth will be able to convince Winry that this was not intentional. It is a scary thing when Alphonse Hohenheim loses his temper and this is just the tip of the iceberg.

But Ed is a tenacious beast and is on his feet again almost immediately. “ _What the hell_?!”

“ _We_ could ask you the same thing!” Winry interjects. She does not remember pulling out the wrench currently gripped in her sweaty fingers, but the cool metal offers comfort nonetheless. It also makes the fury on Ed’s face freeze, stutter with a newfound wariness.

Only then does he seem to realize they are both _seething_ at him, and Winry can feel the heat of the colonel’s glare from over her shoulder, which only adds to the affect. He swallows. “O-Okay, just—wait a minute and _let me explain_ —”

To heck with explanations. Edward Hohenheim is a _dead man_. Cause of death is blunt-force trauma resulting in subdural hematoma. Mark the time, please, if you would be so kind.

Unfortunately, the major chooses that moment to intervene, somehow deciding that Ed is somehow deserving of mercy. Gently—everything about her seems subdued, subtle where the colonel is high-intensity and power compacted into a uniform—she teases her way between Winry and Al to set a comforting hand on their shoulders. It makes her unbalanced, because Al’s spiked shoulder is way up there while Winry’s own is further below, but the major’s hands are soft like cotton. “Say, I think that everyone’s pretty stressed after the day we’ve all had. What do you think?”

Ed is quick to nod hastily in agreement. Amazing how someone who can take down terrorists is such a coward at heart. “That is— Yes. Very much so.”

A gentle smile flashes across the major’s face—it looks so kind that you can almost miss the hint of relief there, just for a fraction of a second. She turns back to the lady colonel, and when Winry does the same, she finds that the colonel’s eyes burn from within the confines of her icy countenance. Even Mr. Mustang has grown grim as a distant thunderstorm.

“How about I take these three back to my place, like originally planned, while you and Roy deal wiith this whole catastrophe with the train station?” The offer sounds amicable enough, without any note of pleading or strain. “We can sort this whole thing out tomorrow. What do you say, Riza?”

“Riza”’s eyes narrow, and it looks for a moment like she will not relent. Even last year, her eyes had not been so hard and flinty, like you could crack your knuckles against them and shatter your bones on impact. Her gaze flickers briefly from Ed to the major, and whatever she sees on the other woman’s face causes her own to relax. The colonel’s shoulders slacken. Relent.

“Very well.” Even this is said in a clipped manner, as though ever mercy can be issued like an order.

Winry cannot help but notice the pocket watch glittering at the colonel’s hip. It has the military insignia on it—of course it does. State Alchemists are the military’s dogs, soldiers that come to heel and bare their fangs at the Fuhrer’s whistle, will wage wars at the snap of a finger if it comes down to it. Attack dogs, living weapons. They are the literal embodiment of every horrible thing the military is capable of.

(And _Ed_ wants to—)

“Great!” The major claps Winry’s shoulder with one hand and then not-so-subtly begins herding them towards the doors that mark the station’s entrance-slash-exist. “C’mon kids. The sooner we get home, the sooner I can put on my famous apple pie. You’ll love it!”

She shrugs off the major’s hand on her shoulder but doesn’t slow down, doesn’t stop. Doesn’t look over her shoulder to see if Ed has bothered to follow. The sooner they leave, the better.

* * *

_~Central First Station_

“He must be quite impressive,” muses Mustang aloud as they immerse themselves into the catastrophe left behind by the ELF’s Blue Squad, “for the general to be so taken with him.”

Riza does not respond. She doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to think about the twelve-year-old prodigy and his suit of armor little brother that she’s leaving behind her. Sure, she trusts Gracia to manage them in the meantime, to keep any more reckless and rash actions reigned in beneath her steady, firm hand. But the damage has already been done. There is a name on the State Alchemist Certification Exam belonging to a child and even if he ducks out, even if he refuses to attend, even if he flunks it—that will not change.

A twelve-year-old boy whose name is irreparably attached to hers. And he has no idea what he’s done. What he’s _doing_.

“I’m making him drop out,” she decides, soft enough for her lieutenant’s ears and his ears only. Hakuro thinks her Edward Hohenheim’s sponsor, so she has that power, has the ability to negotiate the act of withdrawal. Negotiation has never been her strong point. Threats and force, displays of authority that make others come to heel— _those_ are her strong points. But if it comes down to it, she won’t hesitate.

But she can feel his eyes flicking to her in a manner that warns against bad decisions, the kind that have the potential to derail her career. He was always better at gauging long-term consequences than her. “...sir, if I may—”

 _It will reflect badly on you, if the alchemist you sponsor suddenly drops out. It calls into question your integrity, your reliability, and could quite possibly jeopardize your career._ That’s what he wants to say. “I’m aware, lieutenant.”

To that, he says nothing.

Officers bustle around the station, taking witness statements and tending to civilians and comforting passengers and the like. They all sport immaculate blue uniforms. Hers, by comparison, looks rumpled and fatigued. It’s been a bit too long since she visited the drycleaner’s and puts it at the top of her mental to-do list. Right above _sort through the ensuing paperwork_ and _figure out what the hell to do about Edward Hohenheim_.

The lights of the station are particularly blinding, she finds. Her eyes flutter closed. Beyond the ruby darkness beneath her eyelids, the shuffle and din and distant drone of voices can almost be mistaken for the warfront.

Which she really needs to stop thinking about. For her own sanity.

 _This is my fault_ , she realizes suddenly, flashing back one year to the empty-eyed little boy peering up at her from a wheelchair. _I told him to move forward._

_I didn’t mean like this._

Seventeen. That’s how old she was when the silver pocket watch was placed in her palm, its cold weight foreign in her hand. The insignia of the Amestrian military had stared back at her as though in challenge, and it was perhaps the nicest thing she had ever owned. Even then, she acknowledged that she was too young. The military uniform didn’t seem to fit her right.

Twelve. He’s twelve and holding his hand out to received a pocket watch. A silver leash and a stiff blue collar. Another dog blundering blindly into the kennel.

_I didn’t mean like this. **Idiot**!_

If one child joins the military, then what will stop others from following suit? It’s a dangerous precedent, an idea that grips hard at her lungs and causes her ribs to contract. And the worst part is that her name will be attached to it. What will future generations think, when they read about this in the history books? When there are child soldiers on the battlefield and she is the one who allowed it transpire? Will they spit on her name?

Well, it wouldn’t be as though it isn’t deserved. She still remembers that hodgepodge grave she built into the desert sand for a child burned beyond recognition—blackened skin and charred bones and a nonexistent face.

Hell. It wasn’t just the Ishvalans who suffered under her flames. Just look at Bald and the eye he lost to a piece of shrapnel—because she was a poor commander of her company. He was just one of many she had failed, one of many she had allowed to suffer for her own ineptitude. Gracia had to take charge most of the time because Riza never had formal training, lacked experience. She joined the same year she was deployed to the battlefield. Half the time she forgot that she even _had_ a company, people who were looking to her for protection and guidance and she could offer none of it because she didn’t even know _how_.

And now—a child is following her, like a moth to the flame.

( _his wings are already burned, you’d think he’d have **learned** his lesson, because damn if i haven’t—_ )

“Sir?”

At the sound of Mustang’s voice, she snaps her eyes open and glances over at him. He’s a master performer, but concern has slipped through the façade of practiced neutrality. She knows he has his own ideas about guilt and responsibility and her involvement in Ishval, but somehow, someway, he hasn’t flinched away from her yet. What is it, she wonders, that keeps him at her side so steadfastly?

His faith in her is horribly misplaced.

“Apologies, lieutenant.” Shoulders back, head up (you’re leading a child into the military). Fake it ‘till you make it (his life will be on your hands). Breathe (you burn everything you touch). “Find Breda for me. I want a status report.”

He lingers for a moment, a thousand things in his gaze. Then he dips his head, dutifully. Always dutifully. “Yes, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had to completely rewrite Winry's parts because of the general clunkiness of them in the first draft. But otherwise, I like how this came out. I especially love the parts with Ed and Al. Sibling interactions are always a joy to write.
> 
> In other news! I have officially finished writing all of Arc I and have started on Arc 2. All the drafts of the chapters are saved and I'll continue to post at my set monthly/bi-monthly schedule, but just know that everything has been fully fleshed out at this point and at most it just needs to be edited and I am really, really proud of myself for getting this far.
> 
> If you have any questions or need clarification, don't hesitate to ask! Comments and constructive critique are also welcome!
> 
> Sincerely,  
> The Immortal Moon


	19. To Yield With a Grace to Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t agree with this,” she tells him. She surprises herself when her voice doesn’t shake. “I’ll _never_ agree to this.”

_“We choose our joys and sorrows long before we experience them.”_  
—Khalil Gibran

 

_~1911_

So... Neither Winry or Al are talking to him.

Ed supposes he shouldn’t be surprised, really. He did kind of go behind their backs—but it isn’t really like he had a damn _choice_. It’s a lot easier to convince someone of a stupid idea once it’s already partially underway than before it’s started. Part of the reason he and Al managed to persuade Teacher to apprentice them was because they both took the trip down to Dublith and showed up unannounced at her door. Once something is implemented, the argument changes from “why you shouldn’t do this” to “why you shouldn’t follow through”, and that latter is harder to argue for. Society teaches you to finish what you undertake, after all.

He has a feeling that he’ll be able to win Colonel Hawkeye the same way he was able to win over Izumi Curtis—stubborn willpower, tenacity, and a refusal to back down. It’s the same method by which he’ll bring Al and Winry around, too.

Calling Central different from East City is like calling frost different from a blizzard. Bigger, brighter, busier—it’s vast enough to make him dizzy, all stretching skyscrapers and bright metal. There are a few green spaces here and there, but the industrial atmosphere seems intent on choking them out, greyness reigning over the nation’s neo-ancient capital. Factories with tall smokestacks belch steady streams of smog into the sky, turning the pristine blueness into a thicker color with a strange beauty born from its own impurity. The buildings themselves vie for the position of tallest the same way infantile flowers stretch their bulb-heads heads towards the sun in an attempt to flourish beneath its guiding rays.

Central City, the literal epicenter of Amestris. A glittering metropolitan mosaic that seems to snatch him up, crush him tight against its ribcage until he can taste its soul—petrol and cigarette smoke and something else that is as invigorating as it is off-putting. Perhaps that’s the smell of success, mixed in autumn’s wry nip. It _fascinates_ him.

Hughes—or Gracia, as she insists on being called—pulls into the driveway of large but clearly aged bungalow. It’s bigger than the old house in Risembool, its roof slanted more steeply and slathered in teal singles rather than worn caramel. The ruddy color of its exterior, too, is different, but that is on account of it being a construction of brick rather than wood awashed in milky paint. Nonetheless, it has a strikingly rustic look about it that sticks out against the newer, shinier constructions of the city. Smoke curls sleepily from the chimney, like a thought bubble or a dream as illustrated in newspaper cartoons. A quaint cobblestone path leads up to a comely porch that looks perfect for sitting on in the summer, watching the world roll by in a sundrenched daze. As soon as Ed opens the car door, he is met by the nostalgic smell of woodsmoke mixing with the crispness of autumn and the exhaust of the car’s combustion engine.

“Nice place,” he says, hefting his suitcase over his shoulder. Behind him, Winry and Al both emerge, taking in the house themselves but keeping their silence.

It isn’t much of a compliment, but Gracia’s mouth curls regardless. “Isn’t it? We bought this house just after we got married.”

By “we”, she means her and her husband, who Ed knows nothing about beyond his apparent profession as a journalist (“Don’t be too worried if he tries to interview you,” she said on the way here, and spoke as though this were an inside joke of some kind. “He’s been in the business a little too long, I think. Sometimes he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.”). That had, at first, made him nervous, but Gracia also cited the man as being the one to extend the offer of shelter in the first place, so Ed resolves to at least give him the benefit of the doubt. That sort of generosity generally speaks well of someone.

The house’s interior is just as homey as the exterior. The walls are painted a buttery yellow color that seems like the very embrace of sunlight itself, reaching out with open arms to enclose you in its beating heart. A long hallway feeds into a faintly visible kitchen, though all Ed can make out about it is the polished brownness of cabinets. It also branches off into a front parlor that he can’t quite see from this angle, and another hallway further down. To his right, a set of white stairs reach out to hold hands with a second floor, an ivory banister framing the upper level like the white teeth of a smile.

Despite the homeliness of it, it’s easy to tell that this house hasn’t been lived in very long, though—the walls are bare of personal miscellanea, hooks in place but holding up nothing, end tables boasting empty frames. Instead, a few cardboard boxes indicative of a recent move can be seen in various places, the tape keeping them shut fraying to indicate that they have been sealed for long enough that the glue is starting to wear. Likely a matter of not finding the time to fully unpack.

As Al, bringing up the rear, closes the door behind him, Gracia sets her keys into a bowl on a table near the doorway. The steel clatters loudly against the porcelain. “Maes!” she calls into the interior. “I’m back!”

Footsteps sound from somewhere upstairs, and Ed looks up just in time to see a man poke his head out from around the corner. Square jaw, dark hair with a single cowlick jutting out in seeming rebellion, curious eyes. That is the most that Ed manages to glimpse before the man becomes a blur and then suddenly reappears in front of Gracia in what is almost an act of spontaneous manifestation.

“You’re okay?” His hands grip tightly at Gracia’s shoulders, almost protectively so. Behind the rectangular lenses of his spectacles, wide olive-green eyes flash with worry.

Wry amusement causes Gracia’s lips to curl, and she pats one of her presumed-husband’s hands with her own. It’s a little too slow to be entirely comforting, but yet at the same time not entirely patronizing. “Yes, dear.”

The husband’s grip doesn’t abate. “And the baby’s okay?”

“I wore a bullet-proof vest, so yes.”

“Relax” is perhaps too small a word to describe the way the husband sags in visible relief. He leans forward almost comically so, his head dropping with a great sigh, as though the weight of his skull has suddenly become too much for his neck. “Thank _God_.”

Another slow pat on the hand. This time Ed notices their matching wedding bands—they’re nothing fancy, just unpatterned loops of gold that are neither showy nor drab, but rather a tastefully simplicity. “You need to worry less, sweetheart.”

New life swells into the man and he jerks upright enough to plant a lingering kiss on her fair cheek. “Gracia, darling, love of my life—that is like asking me not to _breathe_.”

“Charmer,” she huffs, and it’s the same lovey-dovey aura that surrounded Teacher and Sig in Dublith—all gooey affection, open flirting, romantic sentiments bared for the entire world to see. Almost as though being in love itself is something worth bragging about, something worth sharing with the whole damn world.

Naturally, Ed feels very awkward. He throws a rumbling fake cough into his fist.

Thankfully, this seems to break through the inner world of married bliss. The husband glances their way, and his bafflement tells Ed that the prospect of company had briefly vanished from his memory. He is quick to recover, though, credit where credit is due, and grins wide.

“Oh, right, company!” And then suddenly Ed’s arm is being manhandled in some zealous breed of handshake. A pair of sharp hazel-green eyes meet his. “Maes Hughes—and you’ve already had the pleasure of meeting my _lovely_ wife~.”

“Oh, Maes, _please_...”

Mr. Hughes tosses his wife a look of mock hurt over his shoulder, still somehow managing to jostle Ed around in a handshake at the same time. Scary. “What? I’m not allowed to tell everyone I’m the _luckiest_ man in the world?”

The low groan Gracia releases as she buries her face in her hands says something about exasperation. Through the gaps of her fingers, Ed can make out a burning scarlet flush of embarrassment—but also a wide smile, a bright ivory crescent that brims with some sort of delight. What a juxtaposition.

He almost chalks this up to the weirdness of married couples in general, but Auntie and Uncle don’t fawn over one another so blatantly. (He’s also fairly certain Dad and Trisha weren’t like this either, from what little he remembers of them when they were together—but he would rather not think about _her_ ) The only similar sample he has ever experienced is Teacher and Mr. Sig, which he would rather forget as quickly as he can.

“Uh, yeah, hi.” When Mr. Hughes releases him, Ed checks his wrist to ensure that nothing has been popped out of place. The strain in his shoulder from where Bald pinned him is flaring up again. Talk about _enthusiasm_.

“It’s a pleasure to have friends of Gracia’s over,” Mr. Hughes is saying as he gives Winry the same treatment. She looks torn between politeness and awkward horror as she allows him to abuse her arm. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like!”

“Oh, uh...” Al brings his hands up in a manner that suggests surrender. “T-That’s really not necessary—”

“Nonsense!” Even moving his hands seems to have been a mistake for Al, because now that he’s caught Mr. Hughes’s attention, he receives the same jostling treatment. Ed can hear the audible jangle of the steel plates. “Gracia told me all about how you helped her out on the train. If anything, I owe you!”

Bewilderment claims Ed, because Al only met Gracia after at the very end, after the eyepatch bastard’s automail was shattered by Ed and he was rounded up by Colonel Hawkeye’s men. It was Ed who helped her kiss ass, helped her take out the bastard, so why—

Things are more or less answered when Gracia snorts into her palm. “Actually, Maes—that’s Ed _there_.”

Time is suspended for a moment, or at least seeming so when Mr. Hughes comes to an abrupt halt. He blinks once, almost as though his brain is trying to start up again, before glancing over his shoulder. The subtle pointing of Gracia’s index finger is met with incredulity. “...I thought you said he was the _older_ one.”

“He is, sweetheart.”

...wait a sec.

Before Ed can be properly offended by this, Mr. Hughes revisits his death-grip on Ed’s automail arm. “Oh, sorry about that!” Fucking _handshakes_. Ed’s arm is a blur. “I didn’t expect you to be so... well...”

Yep. _Definitely_ offended. “ _Who’re you calling small enough to slip through a grate_?!”

While Mr. Hughes blinks at him—that same brain-restarting sort of blink—a hand from behind comes to grasp Ed’s shoulder, squeezing with enough force to _hurt_. A glance over his shoulder reveals Winry’s face hovering from behind, but her bangs cast a low shadow over her eyes.

Oh boy...

But then, strangely unperturbed, Mr. Hughes chirps, “Whoops! My bad. That’s a mistake for the record books, huh?” Without missing a beat, he releases Ed’s hand (small mercies) and that bright, friendly smile is back on his face like it never left. “So you’re Ed, that’s Al over _there_ ”—Al creaks as he inclines his helmet in a subtle, sheepish nod—“and am I correct in presuming the young lady is Winry?”

“That’s me.” Winry’s voice is usually a lot more chipper when she’s speaking to new people, but now it sounds like the slow creak of wood straining in an effort to keep from breaking. “Say, um, Mr. Hughes—not to be rude or anything, but do you think we could unpack real quick? It’s been a long day and all...”

A moment of hesitation. For the couple, it is marked by keen, green-eyed looks—almost identical, really, in how they search carefully and gently enough to not be called intrusive. Al turns slowly, metal creaking, his stoic face unreadable.

“Of course.” It’s Gracia who says this, calmly, as though she hasn’t endured a tense car ride here. As though she has no idea what this is about. “There’s a guest room just up the stairs—second door to your left. Can’t miss it.”

Winry’s nails dig deeper into Ed’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

It only occurs to Ed then that this will mean he will be alone, with no one to act as a buffer.

Alone. No buffer.

Oh god oh oh oh _fuck_ —

But she’s already tugging him up the staircase before panic can properly throb through him. And Al follows from behind, cruelly cutting off his escape.

* * *

The door snaps closed like it is moments away from splintering, and the air thickens around the sound. For a moment, there is only a deathly quiet, with Winry’s hand still clutching at the doorknob and Brother squaring his shoulders, attempting to look brave even though his eyes flash with the desire to flee.

Al stands somewhere behind. The room isn’t exactly small but it also clearly isn’t wasn’t meant to house a seven-foot suit of armor, much less a seven-foot suit of armor _and_ two other people. There’s space, of course, but not enough for them to, say, wrestle Brother to the ground if it came to it.

As though sensing his disadvantage, Brother tenses instinctively, looking as though he wants to bolt, eyeing the corner furthest from her and Al as though it might offer him sanctuary. Al shuffles a little closer, ready to catch Brother if he tries to run—it wouldn’t be above him to try. And if it does, then Al is perfectly comfortable, and prepared, to lay down some hurt. Because _God_ , Ed is an idiot.

“What the _hell_ Edward?” Winry rarely curses, and rarely uses Brother’s full name either. Both brim with foreboding.

Remarkably, though, Brother isn’t perturbed. Or at least doesn’t outwardly show it. He crosses his arms and fixes his face with a firm scowl. “You’re not talking me out of it.”

“ _Brother_. You’re joining the _military_.”

“I know that!”

“ _Do_ you?” Winry demands. She doesn’t turn around. With the way her back is tense and rigid, like the stark shadow of a mountain in the distance, it is enough to raise the hair on the back of Al’s neck—if he had any.

Something like offense flashes across Ed’s face, though Winry does not see it. “State Alchemists have unlimited access to otherwise-restricted alchemic studies—libraries like the First Branch Central Library that are off-limits to the public. In exchange, they have to turn over their research to the military and undergo a yearly assessment to renew their certification.”

There’s a certainty with which Brother speaks that bothers Al, somehow. He’s not sure why. It seems to bother Winry, too, because her shoulders rise and fall with a single, sharp inhalation.

“They’re given funding. _Lots_ of funding.” Brother says that part pointedly, giving Al a hard look for emphasis. It takes everything in Al’s power not to seize him by the shoulders and shake him, because in this body, he might accidentally hurt Ed. “And our savings right now are depleted by one-sixteenth, with no current income source.”

Al’s nonexistent heart pauses for a moment. He can feel the absence of where his face would flush with rage, the grinding of teeth, the quickening of his pulse— _idiot_. “ _Money_ isn’t—”

“They’re given travel rights for research purposes, are allowed to stay in military dorms, given a rank equivalent to major—which _could_ be useful—”

“You _researched_ this,” Al realizes. And it chills him, _really_ chills him, because the decisions that Brother brings research into are usually the kind that he wins. Whenever they were kids and arguing about alchemy matrixes, Ed would spend days rooting around for the material that would prove him right, then thrust it in Al’s face.

Naturally, he is horrified. And furious. Maybe both. He keeps thrumming around between the two that he can’t seem to settle on an appropriate reaction.

Again, that offended look hardens Brother’s face. “I wasn’t going to do this without knowing what I was getting myself into!”

Yes. He would. The thing is that Brother never researches for the sake of making decisions—it’s always to bolster his arguments, give them the illusion of a logical foundation. Because Brother’s mind works like quick-drying cement, and if you don’t make an impression while you still can, then you miss your chance entirely. In this case, Ed purposefully excluded them before they could instill doubt in him, so that he could reach this rock-solid certainty on his own. Thus leaving them to either agree or hit the road.

That’s low. And manipulative. And Al decides that he is furious. _Definitively_ furious.

“Look,” Brother starts in what is probably an attempt to sound reasonable but just comes off as condescending, “Siegfried Eastern is the best public-access library in the whole damn country. And I found squat on the Philosopher’s Stone. So my best guess is that the military had some interest in it—which makes sense, if you think about it, ‘cause it _fucking ignores Equivalent Exchange_ —”

Winry has not moved a muscle. Her hands are curled into fists so tight that her knuckles are blanched bloodless white. There is a faint tremor in her shoulders foretelling of disaster. Anticipation twitches to life in the empty void of Al’s hollow inside, like an opossum that had been playing dead for too long.

“—meaning that it’s in the _state_ libraries somewhere. Which only State Alchemists have access to.” Evidently satisfied by this use of (perceived) logic, Brother tilts his chin up and smirks as though declaring victory.

In what universe is this considered a victory. In _what universe_.

“Your plan is to join the _military_ ,” Al growls. Not that it’ll do any good. Ed’s mind of quick-drying cement is not so easily penetrated after it has already hardened. Even jackhammering the idea away is an endeavor in futility.

“Well... yeah!”

It is probably not healthy to become this familiar with exasperation. Al wonders if perhaps someone could please attempt to study Brother’s brain and figure out what went wrong when it was developing. Because he is also fairly certain it is just as unhealthy for someone to be _this stupid_.

“We have a _plan_ , Brother—”

“Which is hit and miss,” Brother retorts. Not angry or impatient, but calm, matter-of-fact. “And you _know_ it.”

The worst thing in the world is arguing with Edward Hohenheim and then he pulls out iron-clad logic on you. In that moment, you just _know_ you’re going to lose.

“So that’s _it_ , then?” The sound Winry’s raw whisper is a jolt, and they both turn to her in surprise. “You just make this—this _huge_ decision and you don’t even _consult_ us—”

“ _My_ decision, first of all.” How Brother has the nerve to sound this petulant is an absolute marvel. Al stifles a groan. “ _Second_ of all, I _knew_ you wouldn’t agree, so—”

“You have a _concussion_!” Winry shouts at the door. Al swears the door shrinks back in fear. He would, too, in the door’s situation. There’s something in the inflection of her voice that seems to stab far deeper than usual, an icepick striking something vital and tender in you. “You’re not in _your right mind_!”

When Ed growls, it reminds Al very much of how Suzie always hissed whenever Felicia attempted to pounce on his tail. “I am _so_!”

“ _Joining the military_ ,” Al reiterates.

“Shitting hell! Can’t you just _trust_ that I know what I’m—”

“You can’t _trust_ the military, Ed!”

That gives Al pause, and he turns to Winry with a twinge of curiosity. It’s a well-known fact that Granny hates the military, something as unfailingly true as water being wet and the sky being blue and the desert being hot. Uncle is also not its biggest supporter, and while Auntie never says anything on the matter, you can sometimes catch her with a distasteful furrow in her brow when the subject comes up. Perhaps that opinion has made it full-circle through the Rockbell family.

...but at the same time, the way she says it—it’s _more_ than that, somehow.

Ever-familiar on his stubborn features, a scowl is quick to reclaim Brother’s face. “The _hell_ did you get that from?”

A full-body tremor has seized her body at some point, and Al has a sudden urge to step back, lest he be caught in the blast zone. “Do you even know what State Alchemists _are_?”

“ _Sure_ I do!” Frustration colors Brother’s tone and he uncrosses his arms, looking like he wants to punch something but is restraining himself against all odds. “ _Everybody_ does. They’re alchemists that are licenced by the—”

“They’re _human weapons_!” Winry whirls around suddenly and Al experiences the coldest shock of panic in years when he realizes that her face is streaked with tears. Not the nostalgic tears that shimmered in the firelight of their old house going up in flames, or the bitter weeping she had succumbed to after Majhal’s death—this is anger and terror bleeding into an unholy medley, her eyes blazing and her lower lip trembling and her cheeks turned blotchy red. “They’re soldiers! They go to war! The next time a war happens then State Alchemists are going on the field and _that could be you_!”

Oh.

(Al hadn’t even thought about that—and now he can’t stop)

Ishval—the Eastern Conflict, it was called on the wireless and in the newspapers—had torn up their hometown. Risembool was just on the cusp of Ishval territory, so even Al himself never saw any fighting, the effects were always felt. Rations, drafts, soldiers pouring in from the train station in marching formation. And then the train station was gone, blown up to stop more soldiers from coming in. Injured soldiers coming to the Rockbells. Rumors of executions carried out at the very edge of Risembool’s territory. The fireworks, signalling an end to the tumult.

It could still happen again, though. Granny once said that Amestris is always at war and from what Al remembers of history class, that is truly the case.

Even Brother can’t deny this horrible reality, and he falls abruptly quiet. The intensity in Winry’s gaze proves to be too much for him after a moment, because his own wavers and drops to his shoes, as though he can find some answer in scuffed black leather. Al is almost grateful that he has no lungs, for the air is too thick, too charged and bursting at the seams to inhale without some negative consequence.

The tips of Brother’s gloved fingers twitch. His bangs curtain his face. “They’re allowed to resign,” he mumbles, but that it’s halfhearted, a bandage hastily thrown over an oozing bullet wound. “I—I won’t let it come to that.”

“You can’t _guarantee_ that,” Winry retorts sharply. It is pain and grief that allows her to stab so deeply, to know the weakest points to attack mercilessly and without hesitation, if it means never reliving that pain.

He and Brother and Dad were in Dublith when the train station was lost amid a horrid burst of fire and smoke. When State Alchemists were called to arms and had to pass through the broken ruins of Risembool, they weren’t there. They know the war too, but her experience is more intimate than theirs.

(it could happen again)

For a fraction of a moment, when Brother raises his head slowly, Al sees a shadow in his eyes. The dark flicker of Majhal, of _that night_ —arrogance bound in blood and decadence, withering as it is exposed to a cruel world. Melting wings, burning eyes, aching bones knotted up beneath twisted steel flesh. For a moment, there is fear, maybe for himself or maybe not. In that fraction of a moment, Al thinks with absolute certainty that Ed is going to make a rare retraction, recant his own idiocy because deep down, he is a selfless person, even if it is hidden behind his crassness, that will not put others through needless worry for his own personal gain.

And in that fraction of a moment, relief blooms in Al, sweet and sure, and it feels like someone has filled his heavy steel body with enough helium to make the metal plating thrum, to make his feet hover above the floor.

But then Brother’s gaze flickers over to Al, and the molten gold of Ed’s irises changes. Flickers, burns, the shadow dispelled. That sulfur-bright resolve finds its way again, a blinding sunbeam flash that leaves spots dancing behind your eyelids because human corneas can only handle so much light, so much brightness.

That relief vanishes before it can sink in, smoke dispersing into the air, a pipedream if there ever was one.

Of course. Brother always was such a selfless person.

“I’m doing it anyway,” he declares.

( _don’t do this_ )

Forget furious. Horrified. Yes, Al is horrified.

So is Winry. Or perhaps stricken is a better word, because even though her cheeks are already bathed in tears, she looks like she wants to burst into them. “You can’t just—”

“I already am.” Brother crosses his arms and he tries to look calm, mature, composed. All Al can see is that burning, that wretched burning in his eyes. “Look, it’s my decision. You don’t have to like it. But I’ve made it and I’m not changing my mind.”

“You’re an _idiot_.”

“You’ve said that already.”

“If you didn’t have a _concussion_ , I would—” Winry sniffles loudly, a bubble of snot growing in her left nostril. Brother grimaces and looks away so her tear-streaked face won’t sway him. “You’ve a concussion, Ed! You’re not...”

She trails off, a sob half-caught in her throat. Al watches as Brother clenches and unclenches his jaw, but does not turn back to her. He notices Ed’s white-gloved hands clenching at the red fabric of his coat where they rest in the crook of his elbows.

“Go home, if it bothers you.”

Those words hang dead in the air, like the blade of a guillotine waiting to behead this precious thing of theirs that has been in the making for as long as they can remember.

 _Stop it_ , Al wants to say, but he has no mouth and he suddenly can’t remember how to speak.

And then Winry is sobbing loudly, each sound choking its way free from her vocal chords. It is not a particularly pleasant brand of tears, the kind that makes you ache because it is the ugliness of them that inspires sympathy, not the act itself. There are some religious sects, most of them dying, that say the holiest of things are too much for humans to look at directly, as though such flawed creatures are forbidden from acknowledging the sacredness of something. But maybe those holy things are like crying, because even if they are sacred, it still hurts to look at. Maybe the sacredness of crying is too much for humans and so they brand it as ugly.

Tears shouldn’t be ugly though. They’re only ugly when they’re shed uselessly, and that is rare.

There is a part of Al that wants to reach out and comfort her. Another part of him thinks he should apologize, because they all know this is his fault, even indirectly. Ed is the kind of person who bears the weight of others’ pain even if it is too much for him, and Al’s steel armor must be hell on his shoulders.

In that moment, he wants to cry, too.

He never gets the chance to say anything, though. Seeming to recognize the futility in crying, Winry wipes furiously at her eyes and sniffles loudly. “ _Fine_. Do whatever you want. I don’t care anymore.”

“Fine.” Brother’s voice is stone.

( _don’t risk yourself for me you idiot i never wanted you to suffer on my account—_ )

Because Brother’s back is turned, he does not see Winry turn sharply on her heel, her ponytail slicing the air like a blade. Al thinks the sound of the door slamming behind her, though, is telling enough.

The draping of Ed’s scarlet coat is bloody, impassive—the Flamel cross on the back seems to glare, regarding Al with stony eyes. Rather obscure as far as glyphs go, the Flamel cross isn’t exactly acknowledged in modern alchemy, never gaining the traction and popularity as some of Flamel’s other glyphs. But it is said that he was proudest of it, citing it as an instrument with which to stabilize volatile elements.

No wonder Brother chose it.

Al suddenly finds his voice again, taking a clanking step forward. “She’s only worried about you.”

Beyond a minute shift in Brother’s shoulders, he remains unmoved. “I don’t need her to worry about me.”

Helpless frustration builds in Al’s hollow body—he can’t even grab Ed by the arm and whirl him around, because if he tugs too hard, he could dislocate his brother’s shoulder. Or tear the automail off. So all he can do is stand here, staring, trying to glare with a face he cannot feel, that is not his.

“This is _stupid_ , Brother.” Stupid, perhaps, didn’t cover it. But Al didn’t know if there was a word that properly encompasses this sheer level of idiocy accompanied by the breathtaking pain and frustration. “Even for you.”

At the very least, this has Brother turning to face him. “It’s only stupid if nothing comes out of it.”

And the look in his eyes says it all. Quick-drying cement, harder than diamonds and unbreakably defiant. It’s the same look Brother had in his eye when Al tried to dissuade him _that night_ , a moment of weakness born from unconscious instincts screaming _wrongwrongwrong_.

Everyone always says they got their stubbornness from Dad, but Al thinks that even Dad didn’t have this look, didn’t look at the world like he could defy it with just a thought. Brother can dig his heel in deeper—and with a metal heel, it’s a lot harder to move him.

No one is going to talk Brother out of this. Not while he’s not doing it for himself. Not while he’s convinced it’s something _has_ to do.

_...dammit._

Al thinks back to the inn, to his careless words, to the ugly, rope-like scar that ringed the automail port. His fault. His doing. Brother is so _stupidly_ stubborn and—Al’s hands clench into fists. “You have to promise me something.”

The harshness falters, and Brother blinks. “Huh?”

“I’ll talk to Winry,” Al says, which he fully intends to do, because leaving her alone to cry and stew is never a good idea, never has been in the lifetime that they’ve known each other. “I’ll try to calm her down. _But_ —you have to promise me something.”

Suspicion and uncertainty alight across Brother’s face. “What exactly—”

“ _Brother_.”

“First I need hear what it _is_!”

Al studies him for a moment, the unassuming annoyance that flashes in Brother’s gaze. There’s nothing there that immediately gives away any immediate resistance, nothing that implies he’s going to immediately shoot it down.

Now or never, then. Al has no lungs to breathe with, so he suffices with a mental inhalation, and raises his head again. “It can’t just be me.”

“...sorry?”

“It... It can’t just be me, who gets their body back. We get your arm and leg back, too.”

( _you lost something too and **don’t** say it’s not nothing, i can’t be the only one getting back what i lost equivalent exchange brother—_ )

“Wha—”

He crosses his arms and must look rather intimidating. It helps that he’s so much taller. “Either you promise, or— I’ll _stop_ you from taking the exam.”

Skepticism bleeds onto Ed’s face. “How?”

Uh.

Good question.

“I’ll—” Al fumbles for a moment. “I’ll sit on you!”

A beat.

“...sit on me.”

“ _Promise_ , Brother!”

Another beat. Brother stares. Al waits.

And then something changes on Brother’s face. Something softens, or relents, or maybe realization finally sets in. But whatever it is, Brother uncrosses his arms and then looks at the ceiling, not in exasperation but in an attempt to hide some sort of wry amusement. “...okay.”

...he did not hear that right. Brother is— too _stubborn_ — he’d never relent _so easily_ — “R-Really?”

“I said it, didn’t I?” Ah, there it is. The familiar scowl. Al was almost worried for a second. “...now go calm Winry down, ‘fore Gracia or her weirdo husband see her and freak the fuck out.”

* * *

The bathroom is all pristine white tile and the faint lemony smell of disinfectant. It’s as good a place as any to sulk, Winry muses sullenly as she crouches next to the toilet, hugging her knees to her chest in some desperate attempt of comfort-seeking. Her tears are cold on her face.

_Go home, he says! That **jerk**._

Go home. Like it’s that _easy_. After watching Majhal die in cold blood, having to relive that behind her eyelids at night. Like it’s easy to walk away from this after witnessing what soldiers did to Risembool, how they tore up the town systematically, with no regard for the people in it.

Like it’s easy to walk away when one of your closest friends wants to walk right into the middle of that, eyes closed and charging forward, reckless abandon guiding every too-sure step of mismatched legs—one of which _she_ made, thank you!

“It’s because of me, you know.”

She didn’t hear the door open, didn’t hear the shuffle-clank of Al’s footsteps against the floor. But when she deigns to look up, he fills the doorway, lingering just outside lest he push his limits and get a wrench to the face. The impulse to lash out does flare in her for a moment before sputtering out in the next, because it really isn’t his fault his brother decided to be such a godforsaken idiot.

The denim of her jeans itches against her cheeks, soaks up the tears. Her tear ducts are raw from such a violent expulsion, her throat thick from swallowing snot. “It’s still s-stupid. He’s s-so s-s- _stupid_.”

There is a pause that feels deliberate. She wishes she could read his face better.

“We won’t blame you,” Al says softly, “if you want to go back home.”

...unbelievable. “N-Not you _too_!”

“I’m just saying... Brother isn’t going to change his mind, and, I mean...” He looks away and one of his massive metal shuffles awkwardly. “I know you hate the military and all...”

“Hate” is a strong word, though if there was anything that ever came close to inspiring such a vile and horrid passion in her, it would be the military. So “hate” isn’t quite the right word, but it comes pretty close to what she feels towards the careless murder soldiers commit. To the helplessness she felt during the war, when all she could do was watch. Watch as the brutes demanded treatment from Granny, as they demanded Mom and Dad plunge themselves into the warfront, demanded support from people they didn’t even care about.

A year ago, that would have been her feelings on the matter. Unfailingly, unflinchingly, an unbiased distaste of all who dressed themselves in the woolen blue uniforms (that Risembool helped make, the wool comes from Risemboolite sheep).

...but Mr. Mustang was not pushy, or rude, or looked at her down his nose. Warrant Officer Falman had placed a hand on her shoulder in an almost-comforting manner. The lady colonel had eyes that burned but they didn’t smolder coldly and harshly. Miss Gracia, a major, offered them a place to stay.

It’s all very confusing.

“Just think about it, okay Winry? Don’t... don’t stay with us unless you _want_ to.” 

Shuffle-clanking in the hallway. It is a long while before she looks up to find that Al has left her to mull it over. An outsider might find this a cruel action—she appreciates the dignity it affords her, the respect it levels her with. Sometimes you need time alone to sort your thoughts, to remember how to breathe.

(In. Out. Your heart is still beating. Remember that.)

So far, only Mr. Mustang and Miss Gracia are definitive outliers. She doesn’t have enough evidence to prove that the warrant officer and the colonel fall into the same category. Maybe their brand of cruelty is a little different, more subdued, or maybe there isn’t one there at all. She doesn’t know them well enough.

Come to think of it, she’s never really bothered to wonder about soldiers before. Is that really right? Making snap judgements like that? She hadn’t denied the terrorists her help and they pointed a gun in her face.

Scarlet flickers out in the hallway. She is on her feet before she even realizes it.

When she was convincing her parents and Granny to let her go, she had told them there were people who needed her. It was that simple—it still is. This, more than anything, proves how phenomenally _idiotic_ Ed can be, if he goes around unchecked. And she knows well enough from experience that Ed is more likely to rope his brother into his insanity than Al is to stop it.

And maybe, if people like Mr. Mustang and Miss Gracia can exist in the military without being so cold...

She snags Ed by the sleeve as he pauses at the top of the stairs. Bewildered, he turns to her—for a moment, with the hardness gone, he almost looks like the boy she grew up with, the one who dumped milk down the sink rather than drink it and raced her home on Tuesdays and taught her rudimentary alchemy by candlelight.

Then the hardness returns, and he becomes the new Ed again. The one who scans her face solemnly, silently, drinking in her tears while gaining a look in his eye—this subdued glint of an apology that he tries to shutter behind the façade of strength. When he looks away, she can’t decide if he is angry or ashamed or both.

“I don’t agree with this,” she tells him. She surprises herself when her voice doesn’t shake. “I’ll _never_ agree to this.”

“I’m not changing my mind, Winry.”

Her grip on his sleeve tightens. “Neither am I. You’re _stuck_ with me, alchemy freak.”

* * *

Ed can count on one hand the number of times he’s had hotcakes for breakfast, mostly because how easy it is to fuck them up. They’re complicated, messy, and there are so many things that can go wrong. Underdone, burnt, mix up the rations for certain ingredients, forgetting an ingredient—anything can make them come out funny.

As he watches Gracia flip them effortlessly, though, he is once again reminded that Dad was, at his very best, a rather subpar cook. That, or she is a goddess who makes cooking look effortless. Mr. Hughes’s cooing seems to imply the latter.

He’s a weird guy, Mr. Hughes. High energy, openly amicable, the kind of person that laughs at things that aren’t even all that funny. It wouldn’t be entirely out of line to compare him to a puppy waiting at the door with sloppy kisses and a wagging tail, now that Ed thinks about it. The main problem is when he asks questions—little, innocuous things like ‘where are you from?’, ‘what brings you to Central?’, ‘oh, so you’re an _alchemist_?’ that are packaged with enough emotional sewage that the dam could burst if you picked at it too hard.

Luckily, as curious as the man is, he’s also considerate. Whenever Ed tenses or glances at Al or goes abruptly quiet, Mr. Hughes is quick to change the subject. Still, something about the glint in the man’s gaze suggests he is taking note anyway, silently filing this information away for future reference. It seems something shared by both husband and wife, though Gracia is a lot subtler about it, sparing only a few glances their way while remaining silent, soaking things in from the background.

Kind of creepy, these two.

Just beyond the kitchen, Ed makes out Al helping Mr. Hughes move around some of their spare boxes in the hallway, helping unpack while Winry sets the table. He’s not sure how it works in the city, but in Risembool it was expected for you to not sit around waiting without doing something to assist. It isn’t moral.

He taps an egg hard against the rim of the porcelain bowl. Cracks fracture along the milky shell, and he digs in his metal thumb to split it entirely. He’s wearing a glove on that hand, because he really doesn’t want to have to clean egg yoke out of the automail joints (Winry’s still sort of mad at him, too, and he doesn’t want to make it worse). The yoke spills into the bowl, joining three others identical to it, staring back like bulbous yellow eyes.

...kinda brings back memories. Cooking over the stove after Dad was gone, trying to make breakfast and burning things more often than not. Geez. It feels like forever ago, but it was just three years back.

“So where does this go?” Al is asking from the hallway. A glance over Ed’s shoulder confirms that he is hefting a remarkably large box, one that would be well above his capacity were he in his old body.

“Just leave it in the parlor,” replies Mr. Hughes easily. He’s also carrying a massive box, though not nearly as large as Al’s burden. “I gotta say, it’s nice to finally get some help with this.”

Gracia throws a frown over her shoulder. “You know I can lift boxes too, right Maes?”

“Darling, the only thing you need to carry is our hope for a better tomorrow!”

...what the fuck. He did _not_ just say that.

Of course, Winry giggling into her hand confirms that he did. Which has Ed wondering _exactly_ how many screws Mr. Hughes has loose. Seriously. What the fuck.

“Men,” Gracia sniffs as she piles three hotcakes onto a convenient plate. “Alright, mover-man. Your breakfast is ready.”

At some point the box must have been discarded, because then Mr. Hughes slides into the kitchen with deceptive grace. His arms slide around her waist, propping his chin up on her shoulder. She doesn’t seem to notice as she pours more batter into the pan. There’s something lazily warm about the expression as he observes her.

“Did I ever mention that you’re the best?” God, he has the gooiest tone, when he says that. “The literal greatest in the whole world?”

As if by magic, her stony expression falters for a moment. She glances over her shoulder at him, wryly amused. “Several times.”

“Love you~.” He kisses her briskly on the cheek and she giggles.

It’s still so weird, seeing people openly display affection like that. He’s seen Auntie and Uncle act like that from time to time, endured Teacher and Sig’s open displays of (occasionally exaggerated) affection, but something in him has never gotten used to it. It’s gross and weird and not normal, frankly.

So Ed does the same thing he always does—averts his eyes, pretends not to notice, covers up his discomfort. He grabs the whisk and works on beating eggs, because beating eggs is better than thinking about—

(if Dad was like that with—)

—fucking hell.

“You’re pretty good at that.” The sound of Mr. Hughes’s voice makes Ed glance up.

It is with great relief that Ed notices the man is no longer cuddling his wife. Good. Ed doesn’t need to vomit today. “You sound _surprised_.”

“Most kids aren’t adept at cooking.” He doesn’t sound condescending, just conversational. Maybe city-folks don’t know how to whisk. But city folks are weird and their egg yolks are bright yellow instead of the fresh sunburst orange that Ed is used to. So there.

“I’m a scientist,” Ed explains, and makes no move to hide his smugness, “and cooking is basically chemistry. They even say that alchemy began in the kitchen.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re good at it,” comes Al’s snide retort from behind.

Annoyance flashes through him and Ed whirls around to find Al peering in through the doorframe, something like wicked amusement in his glowing eyes. How people think Al is the nice one is beyond him. His little brother can be a right bastard when it suits him. “I’m a good cook!”

“You’re not supposed to _blacken_ hash browns, Brother. They’re called hash _browns_.”

Okay. _Fine_! Two can play this game! “And how about the time you tried to make Dad hotcakes for Father’s Day?”

Abruptly, Al starts, so sharply that his armor creaks. “O-Okay, we don’t have to talk about...”

“What happened?” Winry asks, mostly curious.

“Nothing,” Al says sharply.

“He mixed up the ratio for baking soda and baking powder. It was basically glue, and that’s putting it _nicely_.” Al sends him a mildly threatening look, one that promises unpleasant retribution. Ed pauses his whisking to smile back, nice and wide and full of teeth. “Dad and I repurposed it as sticky-tack to hang up the cuckoo clock.”

“You did _not_.”

“We did _so_.”

“You’re awful, Brother!”

“It was _Dad’s_ idea, not mine!”

As Al hangs his head and groans, it is all Ed can do not to cackle. _Checkmate, little brother. Victory is mine!_

(later, he’ll realize it’s also the first time they’ve been able to talk about Dad without something heavy and hollow blooming in his lungs, and that too is a victory, in a way)

It’s honestly been a _while_ since he’s felt this at ease, if Ed is being honest with himself. He still didn’t sleep all the way through the night, but that’s normal at this point. Still—there’s some sort of buttery warmth in the air that tickles his insides, a familiarity that he dares not place lest it all be revealed as an illusion. Arguing with Al like this, the natural back-and-forth quipping between siblings? It brings back memories.

Finished setting up the plates, Winry grabs the cluster of flatware and begins distributing it. “I just remember that one time Granny made hotcakes and they were really sweet and fluffy. I don’t know what she put in them—some secret ingredient or something.”

Ed has a vague collection of the Yule morning before Auntie and Uncle were conscripted and Dad had to mooch off the Rockbells again because he set fire to the bacon. Maybe that’s where the familiarity now comes from—the kind of warmth that can offset the winter cold. “It was beer, Winry.”

That makes her pause and whirl around in alarm, eyes wide. “...it was not.”

“Yeah. It was. I _saw_ her.” He snuck into the kitchen because he was starving and then was chased out with a spatula. Crazy old bat. “And Dad tried to recreate it once—remember the flaming bottle incident, Al?”

“Ohhhhh yeah. _That_ was pretty bad...”

“It wasn’t— She wouldn’t have—” Winry’s face goes perfectly blank for a long, drawn-out moment. Ed almost considers snapping his fingers in her face, but then she turns around sharply, resuming her task of positioning. “Okay. Well! I’m just going to rethink my whole childhood, thanks.”

“ _Flaming bottle incident_ ,” Mr. Hughes repeats, because apparently that’s the part that stuck with him. Not the part where Granny served them beer, even indirectly. Personally, Ed thinks that’s way worse, because liquor is evil and nothing in the world can convince him otherwise.

Al reaches up to scratch nervously at the back of his head—an old habit of his—but then stops, seeming to remember that steel can’t be scratched, and lowers his hand again. “Dad was... um...”

“Mildly destructive,” Ed finishes, which earns a scolding look from Al. But hey, it’s true. “There are some days we were lucky to make it out _alive_. Like the time he destroyed the fridge—”

“He did _not_ —”

“There was _black smoke_ —oh, _don’t_ look at me like that!— _coming out the fridge_ , Al.” Ed jabs the dripping whisk in his brother’s direction. “He tried to fix some funny noise or something and alchemized the damn thing into a _time bomb_.”

“It _didn’t_ explode, though,” Al retorts, as though that’s the important thing here. Of course. Blowing up the house isn’t something to dwell on unless it’s purposeful. Of course.

Amusement has suffused across the Hugheses faces in varying degrees. Gracia cover her mouth with silent laughter, though her shoulders still shake and she seems to have forgotten that there are hotcakes on the pan that need flipping. Her husband, meanwhile, arches a single brow in befuddlement.

“Where was your _mother_  in all of this?” Mr. Hughes asks.

Something in Ed instinctively coils deep in his gut, tightening until just this short of painful, like a noose hanging from your throat. It’s not his fault—Mr. Hughes didn’t _know_. No one ever does. It is a common assumption that happy families involve a stern but gentle father and a kind, loving mother. Not unlike the ones his peers had back home, their smiles kind as they wait at home for you to come back after a long day of school, instead of the other way around where _you’re_ waiting for _them_ —

He tries not to let his smile slip into a hateful scowl because these people are _nice_ and don’t deserve his baggage after opening their home and—whisking. Go back to whisking.

“Who knows,” Ed replies, because a response is usually expected. He keeps his tone light. “Gallivanting around the country—or hell, maybe a different country. Don’t really think about it. Who knows.”

Except he ends up whisking too fast and a globule of beat egg splashes across the white tiles of the counter, its yellow color stunningly bright.

“Damn. Shit, I’ll—”

“I got it.” Mr. Hughes swoops in with a dishrag that Ed didn’t notice earlier and swiftly wipes it away. He catches a glimpse of the man’s expression, just the briefest flash—there’s something apologetic there, sympathy inserting itself between the systematic process of _notice-organize-remember_.

He pretends not to have noticed, goes back to whisking. The eggs are mostly beaten, a gooey yellow broth swirling around in the bowl, but he can still see some bubbles of albumen that haven’t yet been dissolved. “I coulda gotten it.”

“Please, you three have been doing plenty around here as it is.” Mr. Hughes bundles up the soiled dishrag to be washed later. It’s a rather dingy patch of cloth, probably white at one point in its existence, but time and grime have reduced it to an unflattering grey color. “Moving boxes, helping unpack, helping with cooking, _fixing the plumbing_ —”

“It was just a dented washer,” Winry says with a dismissive wave of her hand, like performing maintenance on the complexities of internal plumbing is no big deal. Well, probably not for a trained automail mechanic. It must have been child’s play to her.

“Regardless, you don’t need to do all this. You’re _guests_.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t _have_ to offer us a place to stay,” Ed points out. The eggs look whisked thoroughly enough. He taps the cooking utensil against the side of the bowl, flicking off bright yellow goo. He’s still not used to the color, or the fact that they have to be frozen because you can’t get them straight from the source. No Mueller farm just down the block out here. “It wouldn’t be an Equivalent Exchange if we didn’t pay you back somehow.”

Gracia’s brows scrunch thoughtfully. “That’s an alchemy thing, right?”

“Yeah. Kind of a ‘get what you give’ idea.”

“...hm.” Ed isn’t sure how to feel about that little noise, but before he can question her, she turns back to the hotcakes sizzling in the pan. “Maes, seriously. _Eat_ something. You have to head to work early, right?”

Mr. Hughes glances briefly at the plate of pancakes on the counter, as though only just remembering they were there. Then he glances over at Al and Winry, thoughtful. “Well, yeah, but I could just—”

“No, you are _not_ just going to grab something on the way, and I’ll tell you _why_.” Ed flinches on Mr. Hughes’s behalf when Gracia jabs a batter-covered spatula in his face. Her own expression is somewhere between scolding and defiant, brows drawn, eyes fierce. “People either think I can’t be a good soldier because I’m married _or_ they think I can’t be a good wife because I’m a soldier—but we live in a society where both are possible so you are going to _eat your pancakes_.”

For a moment, Mr. Hughes does nothing more than blink at the spatula in his face, nothing more than faint surprise coloring his face. Then, remarkably enough, his face splits into a wild grin. “Well, it’s not like anything from a café is going to taste as remotely good as your cooking.”

“Damn betchya.” Flashing a smile that is every bit as fierce and proud, Gracia goes back to tending the next batch of hotcakes. “Syrup’s on the counter.”

...married people are _weird_.

Ed ducks below the counter to the cabinet where Gracia pulled a pan out from earlier. They’re all black cast iron, expensive-looking and shiny, probably new. Nothing like the beaten cookware from their old house—which were probably melted down by the fire, reduced to mangled lumps of half-melted steel. He searches one that is the right size for cooking omelettes.

“Are you sure you can’t have anything, Al?” Mr. Hughes’s voice drifts over from the kitchen table.

“No. It’s, uh, part of the training.” A lie to explain why Al couldn’t remove his armor—alchemy training, at least, was a subject most people wouldn’t ask about. Most people think alchemy is weird, either some brand of magic or an extremely useful tool reserved only for solving domestic plights. Most don’t ask for more details. “Can’t eat in public.”

There’s a skillet that should be the right size. It looks a little older than the others, too, with a dent in its handle. Ed grabs it.

“Alright.” Mr. Hughes sounds just a touch disappointed. “At least take something to go. And no offense to this teacher of yours or anything, but this whole policy is sort of ridiculous. What kind of person denies you the simple pleasure of sharing a meal with friends and family?”

It is a _miracle_ that Ed does not bang his head on the counter as he rises back to his feet.

He does, however, close the cabinet a little harder than necessary. Gracia glances up at him with a glint of unspoken worry in her eyes, which he chooses to ignore for the sanctity of his own sanity. Autopilot, Ed. Turn on the stove, set the pan on the burner, don’t think about _that night_. Pour the egg in the pan, steady hands, good boy, you almost look okay.

An urgent rapping of knuckles against the door breaks something in the air.

Everyone looks up. There is some bewilderment, some surprise—Winry’s shoulders tense like she’s waiting for the penny to drop, only the “penny” is something like a bomb or something that’s going to detonate and destroy everything. The only one completely unperturbed by the interruption is Gracia, who stacks some hotcakes on a plate that she then sets aside.

“That’s probably Riza.” That nonchalance must be practiced. It _has_ to be. “Al, could you be a dear and let her in, please?”

Perhaps it says something that she doesn’t ask Winry to do it. Winry, who has a sort of warlike expression flickering in the back of her eyes, something sharp and protective, which is as sweet as it is ridiculous. Ed guesses, as he grabs a spatula, that Gracia also didn’t ask Mr. Hughes because breakfast is a serious deal. You don’t mess with housewives (or whatever Gracia is, because she also works in the _military_ ). Teacher made that _crystal_ clear.

As Al gets to his feet, punctuated by the slow creak of metal, Ed thinks he can almost feel the loss of something. That warm brightness sputters a little, dry gasping, a last swansong before it fades into oblivion. It’s like having something golden and tender in the palm of your hand only to realize that it’s pyrite, utter uselessness wrapped in the pretty disguise of some beautiful dream. All dreams end, though, don’t they? That’s what waking up is.

The door opens. Colonel Hawkeye and her lieutenant wait on the other side.

Warm butter really is a good analogy, Ed muses. If the illusion this atmosphere provides is warm butter, then the colonel and the lieutenant are like a butter knife—cool and metal, taking a large chunk away for their own selfish purposes. Except, well, Ed is the one who wanted them to come, so maybe it’s not such a good analogy after all.

“Apologies for the intrusion,” says Hawkeye before stepping inside. The lieutenant follows at her heels like a creepy stalker shadow. Al closes the door behind them and Winry makes no attempt to hide her critical glare.

“Morning Riza,” Gracia chirps as she clicks the burner off, grabs the plate of hotcakes, and then makes her way over to the table, “We’re just in the middle of breakfast. Wanna sit down, eat something?—Here you are, Winry.”

Winry jumps a little when Gracia sets the plate down in front of her. Like she had forgotten while she was giving the soldiers her gimlet eye. Ed had kind of joked about the whole “Granny’s views rubbing off” thing, but maybe he downplayed it a little. Yesterday’s argument had made it quite evident how strongly she felt on the matter.

 _...and I made her cry, ‘cause I’m an asshole._ _Dammit._

Either she doesn’t like these sort of domestic scenes or she recognizes the tension her presence has incited, because Hawkeye shakes her head. “Thank you for the offer, but I’ve already eaten.”

“Is that code for ‘I fell asleep at my desk doing paperwork again and Roy made me good coffee’, or did you actually eat something?” Ed watches in amazement as Hawkeye’s cheeks color, just slightly, blink and you’d miss it—what the _fuck_ is happening right now—and Gracia flashes this sweet, victorious little smirk. “Uh huh. Grab something to eat, Riza—oh, Ed, spices are in the cabinet, by the way.”

The cabinet. Which is way up there. Because whoever designed this kitchen must have been a fucking giant with unrealistic expectation of normal height.

...maybe he should invest in platform boots. Would that be crazy? It sounds crazy. ...maybe

“I ate something,” Hawkeye mutters peevishly. She is embarrassed. Ladies and gentlemen, the scary colonel lady can get embarrassed. Alert the presses.

“Eat more. There’s leftover apple pie from last night.”

“Your apple pie _is_ fantastic,” comes a voice from right behind Ed. He jumps—does _not_ squeak because that would be lame as hell—and whirls around to find that the lieutenant reaching up to the cabinets. And okay, what _is_ it with people and just suddenly appearing over Ed’s shoulder? Is it a new trend or something?

Dark hair, dark eyes... The man’s name escapes Ed at the moment, because he keeps thinking “Deadshot” and that’s not right, or something involving horses for some reason. Nonetheless, white gloved hands delicately stretch over Ed’s head to grip the cabinet handles, then pull them open. An array of bottles spices hovers just beyond Ed’s reach.

“Damn right it is!” Ed catches movement in his peripheral, the squeak of chair legs against wooden floors. Mr. Hughes rising to his feet. “Okay, I’ve gotta get going. Just need to grab a lunch—”

“In the fridge and labelled,” Gracia interrupts. The evenness of her tone is expert at masking her smugness, but even still, Ed can _feel_ it. “Second shelf.”

“...when did you find time to—”

“Because I am a master of multitasking.” _Now_ you can hear some pride in Gracia’s tone, bared openly for the world to see. “See, you’re going to bring it to work and tell all your little journalist friends ‘this is the lunch my lovely wife made me while juggling ten other things at once and I’m _so_ damn proud of her’.”

Hawkeye lets out a short, sharp noise from the back of her throat that’s somewhere between disapproving and bemoaning. Very expressive. “For the love of God, stop _encouraging_ him.”

“Well, hey, if I have _permission_ to—”

Abruptly, Mr. Hughes falls quiet. Ed guesses Hawkeye must have pulled out the Death Glare she leveled him with in the train station. The one that scares the piss out of you if your bladder’s too weak. Ed hopes Mr. Hughes has a good bladder.

With that done, Hawkeye evidently turns to Winry and Al, because she then asks, “How soon do you think you’ll be ready to leave?”

“We have to eat, first.” Winry’s tone is slightly acerbic, a little terser than Ed is used to. “And pack our things.”

A brief pause, then, “Very well.”

Right. The sooner this is done with, the sooner they have access to Central First Branch. And its illustrious Alchemy Floor.

When Ed goes back to his cooking omelette, he sees that the lieutenant—Mustang, _that’s_ his name—has pulled down several bottles of herbs. Thyme, sage, oregano, dried basil, coriander—or so the labels proclaim. All things that go well into seasoning an omelette, according to every cookbook Ed has ever deigned to read. Without a word, the cabinet is closed back up and the lieutenant draws back, as though suddenly remembering that standing over someone is actually pretty fucking creepy.

Ed’s pride can’t help but bristle a little at the insult, even if it wasn’t meant as one. He snatches up the coriander and sprinkles a liberal amount over the egg goo. The heat is rising enough to make it cook, now. “I could’ve gotten that on my own, _thanks_.”

He is met, however, with a half-lidded look. Almost bored. That alone is grounds for Ed to dislike the smug asshole, but then goes and says, “I think the principles of height disagree.”

“I’m _sorry_?”

“Well,” drawls the man and Ed’s opinion of him is plummeting further by the second, “you’re under five feet—”

“WHO’RE YOU CALLING SO SMALL HE CAN GO SKATING ON AN ICE-CUBE?!”

For the record, Ed has no idea when he stuck the spatula in Mustang’s face, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t stand by it, because now flecks of gooey yellow egg dance across the pristine blueness of his uniform.

Looking annoyed by this, the lieutenant wipes his jacket off with one hand, then proceeds to raise that hand just above his own head. Not in a saluting manner, far more casual and blasé. For a moment, Ed wonders if maybe the man is touched in the head. Then he raises the other hand over Ed’s head and _then_ he understands, a bolt of jagged outrage knifing through him.

As Mustang proceeds to study the space between his palms, his blood _boils_.

“Now you’re fucking _asking_ for it.” He lunges and the asshole has the nerve to sidestep him. Ed manages to catch his balance at the last moment to keep from falling on his face, but the outrage remains.

“Quite the _short_ temper you have,” muses the man distractedly. The wry glint in his eyes makes it clear he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“I will _punch you so hard my fist COMES OUT THE OTHER END_!”

“Oh, Roy, stop _teasing_ the poor kid,” comes Gracia’s chiding tone from behind. When Ed chances a glance over his shoulder, though, he sees that wry amusement has taken residence in the curve of her smile, mirrored by Mr. Hughes’s arched brows. Even the colonel looks mildly intrigued behind the cool, professional mask she wears.

Savages. The military (and Mr. Hughes) is full of savages.

On the other hand, Winry and Al both have their heads in their hands. His own friend and brother, mocking him! Too cruel. He can’t decide which of them is the worst.

“I’ll try,” replies the lieutenant, sounding criminally unrepentant. So the answer is him. _He’s_ the worst. “But he reacts to the _littlest_ provocation.”

“ _Bastard_!” Again, Ed lunges, and again, the lieutenant sidesteps. He has to scrabble to a halt before he runs straight into the pan of cooking omelette—which, hey, needs to be flipped now. Perfect timing.

“Mustang,” deadpans Hawkeye and wow, that _look_ of exasperation. Fucking _amazing_. Give the woman a round of applause for making you feel bad just for _existing_. “Wait in the car.”

“Oh, alright.” He throws a look of feigned hurt over his shoulder as he stalks out of the kitchen. An attempt at garnering pity that only falls flat. “As long as I’m not waiting there for hours on end, then I suppose it’s only a _tiny_ inconvenience.”

“BURN IN HELL.”

Lt. Bastard just chuckles softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from the poem “Reluctance” by Robert Frost.
> 
> God, I completely rewrote this entire thing because the first draft was clunky as hell and focused on a lot unnecessary details. But now it flows so much smoother and I love it to death.
> 
> Honestly, the only reason I managed to get through it is because I discovered Amalee's English cover of "Golden Time Lover"—I highly recommend it, along with her other covers, because her voice is gorgeous (for FMA, she's done "Again", "Period", "Rain", and "Let It Out" from BH, and "Ready Steady Go" from '03). [Go check her out!](https://open.spotify.com/artist/4sf4DrAOkheqktxTyKm7tO)
> 
> Hey! The official introduction of Maes Hughes! Rejoice!
> 
> And yes, Mustang is an ass who likes teasing Ed. This is true in all continuities. Don’t deny it. You know I’m right.
> 
> As always, questions or needed clarification are always welcome. Just drop a comment.
> 
> Sincerely,  
> The Immortal Moon


	20. Of Soldiers and Childhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Shou Tucker, huh?” Ed says the name casually, but there’s a keen glint in his gaze, like someone fashioned an arrowhead out of amber. Intrigue taking the shape of a challenge. “Say, what exactly do they mean by ‘Life-Sewing Alchemist’?”

_“We were young, we were wild_  
_We were halfway free_  
_We were kids on the run_  
_On a dead-end street”_  
—Daughtry, “18 Years”

 

_~1911_

It’s a nice car.

The leather smells pleasant enough that it’s probably new, and it’s kind of nice to sit on, if Winry were bothering to pay it any mind. Right now, the streets of Central City occupy her attention, the black streetlamps and the little trees with browning leaves planted in the sidewalk and the buildings that tower overhead in some misguided attempt to prove their superiority. It’s better than focusing on the woman sitting next o her.

Colonel Hawkeye holds herself with the ramrod stiffness telltale of soldiers. She has her hands folded on her lap, the ruby-colored stitching marring her white gloves mapping out an array that Winry has never seen before. When the outside begins to bore her, she studies the matrix idly, notes the fire triangles that compose it, the symbol of the salamander and the miniature flame that marks the rim. Even with her rudimentary understanding of alchemy, the uniqueness of the matrix strikes her.

 _I thought the salamander was an outdated glyph..._ At least, that was the impression Winry had gotten when Ed gave her a derisive look and Al winced when she pointed to it on a page. It feels like a lifetime ago.

Right now, the colonel is attempting to talk Ed out of taking the exam—SACE, that word keeps getting thrown around a lot. All of it is left as white noise to her, drowned by the raw burn that has gripped Ed’s gaze so fiercely that even the colonel’s sharply-punctuated words melt beneath it. Al sits back, only chiming in every now and again when Ed pauses to channel the full heat of his glare.

She wishes she was sitting beside Ed or Al, but they took refuge with one another, Al’s bulk leaving no place for her to sit. It’s not something she holds against him (he didn’t ask for this), but she would rather be up front, sitting next to Mr. Mustang where he sits silently at the wheel, his gaze occasionally ghosting over them through the rear-view mirror. His presence wouldn’t rub at her the wrong way—she’s not even sure _why_ the colonel bothers her so much. Maybe it’s because she’s an important officer, a commander rather than just a normal soldier, but it somehow feels like more than that.

Maybe it’s the pocket watch hooked to the loop of her belt, the dragon embossed upon the surface grinning at Winry almost mockingly.

“ASA alchemists also have access to the libraries,” the colonel is saying, but from the way Ed has crosses his arms, it’s clear that her arguments fall on deaf ears.

Something like weariness echoes through Winry’s bones as she turns to Al in askance. She doesn’t even know where they’re going, beyond that it’s a place for them to stay. And she wants to be there, wants to lie down and sleep somewhere. The time zone differences didn’t earn her a restful night’s sleep.

(Last night had only earned her troubled mind fever dreams of Ed clad in a stark uniform, marching across the no man’s land of a battlefield with that damnable watch at his hip and his automail transmuted into a bloody weapon.)

“The Alchemy Society of Amestris,” explains Al in a low voice. Sometimes she thinks he comes up with explanations simply by anticipating that she won’t know something. “They’re an organization that studies alchemy independently of the military.”

This is the first she’s hearing of this. Why, then, is Ed vying for the position of State Alchemist if a non-military position of similar prestige is available?

Ed unknowingly answers her unspoken with a clipped, “ASA is military-funded, their alchemists are glorified lab assistants to State Alchemist’s projects, they have no freedom to conduct their own personal research—I am _egregiously_ offended that you think I would stoop so low.”

Ah.

See, there are times when Ed acts like a spoiled brat, but then he goes and pulls out long words like “egregiously” and “glorified”. Sometimes it’s difficult to judge his maturity levels.

“The military is no place for children,” the colonel retorts, but beneath the harshness of her tone is a buried note of—something. It’s strained and afraid and Winry dares not call it desperation, because that’s not what it is... right?

“I’m not a child,” Ed snaps back.

(and the worst part is, he’s not entirely wrong, either)

Tension crackles between their gazes, and it is as much a staring match as it is a battle of wills. Neither side looks ready to concede, either. The colonel’s eyes look like polished jewels, Ed’s like gleaming amber. There must be some hardness scale of some sort that could determine which is stronger, which is less likely to break, but Winry doesn’t know enough about minerals.

The car comes to a stop. She peeks over her shoulder to see that they’ve reading a red light, its bloody glow vaguely distorted as it blooms across the glass windshield. A smeared flower.

“It’ll be dangerous.” The woman’s voice is not unkind—but it is also as ruthless as a parring knife. Like she forgot what it means to be soft. “You realize that, don’t you?”

Ed only blinks and looks straight ahead. Meets her eyes, no hesitation.

Winry thinks she sees Mr. Mustang’s eyes flicker in the rear-view mirror again, just before the colonel heaves a heavy sigh through her nose. She glances at the woman and is surprised to find that the military posture has drooped, just a bit.

A gloved hand is raised, and as though it was planned, Mr. Mustang slides a manila folder into the awaiting palm.

When the light turns green, it hits the windshield like a sloppy kiss. The engine hums as the car lumbers back into motion.

“The State Alchemist Certification Exam—or the SACE, as we call it—consists of three parts. A written test, an interview, and a practical portion.” The colonel sets the file on her lap, and when she places a hand flat atop its vanilla-colored surface, the array on the back of her glove seems all the more striking. Her earrings glint like the tip of a scalpel. “Between the circle I saw last year and your apparent ability to transmute without a circle, the only real challenge should be the interview. Especially considering it’s purpose is to determine the candidate’s compatibility with a military environment.”

Yeah, no. Ed is bad with orders. Even during the rehab process, he rarely did as Granny or Winry told him, pushing himself to the brink of dehiscence so many times that she lost count. It took Dad having to slip mild doses of sleep medication into his food for him to _finally_ stop straining his ports. Ironically, it also helped with the insomnia he suffered in those first early months.

“You’re gonna _flunk_ that,” she decides.

Somehow, Ed has the nerve to look offended. “You don’t know that!”

“ _Miserably_.”

“We’ll have to work on your people skills, Brother,” Al agrees diplomatically.

“What the fuck? I have people skills!”

Who knew it was possible to garner three simultaneous looks of utter exasperation so effortlessly? Winry wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Mustang even takes his eyes off the road to join in.

Huffing indignantly, Ed crosses his arms and looks away. Yeah. The _paragon_ of friendliness.

With a sigh of her own—more of an exhalation, really—the colonel picks up the file again. It’s not an overly thick file, Winry notices absently. “If you do, by _some_ miracle, pass this portion, you’ll also be subjected to a physical examination. At this point, you’ll need a cover story in place to explain your automail. You have one, right?”

Ed’s expression blanks. “Uh.”

Typical. He acts like he thinks everything through but he _never does_. And then gets offended when you call him out on it. _Honestly_.

“Well,” the colonel goes on diplomatically, “you have two months to dream one up. In the meantime—”

What.

“Whoa, whoa, _whoa_.” Ed straightens, alarm swallowing his rancor and widening his eyes. “What do you mean _two months_?”

The colonel arches a brow casually. “The SACE takes place in December.”

“But.” The words feel sticky on Winry’s tongue, even more so when the woman flicks her carnelian eyes in her direction. “C-Can’t you just take it whenever?”

“No. That would be terribly inefficient.”

...right. Inefficient. Winry shouldn’t be surprised. The military is all rank-and-file, a very specific way of doing things. She shouldn’t be surprised.

Unfortunately, that leaves the question of where they’ll stay in the meantime. Clearly not with Mr. Hughes and Miss Gracia, and a hotel would be too expensive (unless the colonel or someone else paid for it, but that doesn’t seem likely). Ed and Al exchange a nervous look, probably wondering the same thing.

Shaking his head, Ed pulls an exasperated grimace. “I can’t _wait_ that long, dammit!”

Of course that would be at the forefront of his mind. Not finances or anything practical. Nope. Just his own impatient impulsiveness. Sigh.

A little laugh is barked from the driver’s seat. Up until then, Mr. Mustang has refrained from comment, but now he remarks flippantly, “Yeah. _You’re_ going to pass the interview.”

“ _Fuck_ you,” Ed spits, inadvertently proving the lieutenant’s point.

“As I was _saying_.” The colonel extends her arm, the pile perched between her gloved fingers meticulously. The end held out is the fold, so that nothing will spill out, betraying an odd amount of thought in the action. “In the meantime, I’ve managed to convince a fellow State Alchemist to allow you to stay with and study under him.”

Winry can’t help a jolt of surprise as she turns to the colonel. “So you _are_ helping us.”

Again, those earrings flicker sharply. The colonel looks up at the car ceiling as though contemplating all the ways it exasperates her. “...unfortunately.”

“It was a fifty-fifty decision, really,” comes Mr. Mustang’s lighthearted chirp.

It’s a joke. It has to be. This isn’t something you flip a coin over. From the annoyed look the colonel sends his way, it seems she doesn’t agree with the attempt at humor at all. Rolling his eyes, Ed proceeds to snatch the file out of the colonel’s hand without any sort of propriety.

“Anyway,” drawls the colonel, facing forward again as Ed parts the file with prosthetic fingers. “I assume you’re looking into bioalchemy—”

“Meta-alchemy, actually.” Ed’s head is already bowed over the files, eyes darting eagerly to drink up as much information as possible. Winry’s noticed that he’s begun to read at a faster pace than before, though it’s not noticeable unless you’re familiar with him.

“—and...” The colonel falters, blinking once. Her brows furrow just so, dipping into the ghost of a puzzled frown. “ _Meta_ -alchemy? Why meta-alchemy?”

“We’re, um.” Al hesitates a moment, glancing once at Ed and once at Winry. It surprises and touches her that he looks her way, as though to consult her, even if this is more about them than her. She nods once, which is more than Ed does, so Al turns back to the colonel. “We’re looking into the Philosopher’s Stone.”

This causes the colonel’s brows to pinch fully, bewilderment unabashed and unbidden. “...the Stone.”

“You’ve heard of it?” Al makes no move to hide his surprise.

“Every alchemist in _Amestris_ has heard of it,” the colonel replies blandly, and it is lucky her face is turned away so she can’t see the way Ed’s face twists into a scowl. “It’s a _fairytale_.”

On a whim, Winry spares a glance at Mr. Mustang over her shoulder. But his eyes in the mirror are dark in more than just color—a shadow is there, a grim wariness. She doesn’t understand why.

“It’s our best shot.” And Ed juts his chin out in a manner that signals the conversation is over.

There is the faintest twitch in the colonel’s hands. It’s like her ligaments betray her, rebel against the composure she attempts to impose upon her body. Even soldiers are not so mechanical as they seem.

“My apologies, then.” Her hands smooth out again. White and red. “I anticipated that you would be looking into bioalchemy, and so I found you an expert on chimeras.”

“ _Chimeras_?” An illustration from the beginner’s guide flashes through Winry’s mind—a lumbering creature with shoulder joints not properly fitted into the socket, with bulging eyes and a warped muzzle, reptilian and vaguely grotesque. A shudder runs down her spine as a faint nausea twists in her belly. “Aren’t those— transmutations of _animals_?”

Something like sympathy marks the faint twitch of the colonel’s mouth, the fleeting softness in her eyes. “Not the most glamorous of alchemy branches, is it?”

Understatement of the _year_. Winry remembers recoiling in disgust when she saw that picture, retching at the sheer horror of it. Neither Ed or Al had been able to understand, but all she could think at the time was if that had been Den, or one of their cats, or some other beloved pet. Because animals may not have the rational skills of people, but that didn’t make their lives any less valuable, didn’t make using them as _material_ any less disturbing.

And now the colonel wants them to share a space with someone like that. Hell no.

The colonel nods once, briefly, in an almost understanding manner. “I’m afraid bioalchemy is a very tricky subject. Medical alchemy can edge too close to human transmutation if it’s not careful, so the military tends not to fund it. Botanical alchemy isn’t exactly all that intriguing to the government either... which leaves chimeras, as you can imagine.”

“Sounds like some twisted priorities,” Winry mutters.

To her surprise, that earns a small, wry chuckle from the woman.

It vanishes the next moment, that grim professionalism once again claiming her. The timing is immaculate, because Ed and Al both glance up from the file to meet her steely eyes. Al’s soulfire gaze does not give away much, but Ed’s face flashes with a razor-slash smirk like he has something to prove.

“Shou Tucker, huh?” Ed says the name casually, but there’s a keen glint in his gaze, like someone fashioned an arrowhead out of amber. Intrigue taking the shape of a challenge. “Say, what exactly do they mean by ‘Life-Sewing Alchemist’?”

“The what?” Winry asks.

Al points a leather finger at the file. “It’s right here, next to his name. ‘The Life-Sewing Alchemist’.”

“State Alchemists have codenames, based upon their unique abilities and or specialties.” For some reason, the colonel pauses, eyes flickering briefly downwards towards the arrays on her gloves, as though checking to make sure they’re still there. “Tucker’s is ‘Life-Sewing’ because of his success in creating a chimera that could speak and understand human language.”

A beat of silence passes. Winry does not altogether understand the twin looks of awed shock that overcome the brothers’ faces, but she wonders if it’s the same way she looks at miraculous new inventions—like the time she read in the paper about a new refrigerated vehicle.

“You’re _kidding_ ,” Al says.

Ed’s grip on the file goes slack and it nearly slips right out of his hands. “How the _hell_ did he do that?”

Okay, so apparently this is not a normal accomplishment. Good to know.

“I’m not entirely sure,” admits the colonel mildly. She reaches forward to pluck the file from Ed’s hand before it can fall to the floor. “Bioalchemy isn’t really my field, and I never saw it, but I assume it was a composite of creatures with advanced lingual capacities. Parrots and apes and such.”

“He’d have to fine-tuned the _shit_ out of those vocal chords,” Ed says, blinking.

An incessant prickle builds at the base of Winry’s spine—she’s not sure if it’s some kind of foreboding or just the general disgust at the topic of chimeras in general. Or, maybe it has to do with the fact that the military is funding such researching. She grimaces at that last thought as she turns to the colonel. “That must have made people happy. New discoveries and all.”

“Rather short-lived discovery,” mutters Mr. Mustang before the colonel can respond.

Bewildered, Winry twists in her seat to glance at him. The rear-view mirror captures his petrol-dark eyes again, but her gaze cannot. Instead, the road claims them and it feels like the intensity with which he focuses on it is an effort in avoidance.

Unease twists in her gut. “What do you mean by that?”

“Lieutenant,” intones the colonel, gently. Her gaze is downcast on the file in her hand and if she has a reprimand prepared, she keeps it to herself.

Fingers pitter-patter idly against the wheel. Still, Mr. Mustang does not raise his gaze to look at them. Like the lack of eye contact can keep anyone from noticing how guarded they are. “Based on the rumors I’ve heard... the chimera apparently had some sort of intestinal deficiencies that resulted in its death just three days after it’s creation.”

“So it couldn’t eat?” It’s Al that asks that, and it is not lost on Winry the way Ed averts his gaze with a brief wince.

That moment that the lieutenant takes before answering marks the bridge between confirmation and denial. “That’s the working theory, yes.”

“What’s the other one?” Winry hears herself ask, and she doesn’t know why, but her heartbeat seems louder somehow.

Those dark eyes flick to the colonel, as though in askance. When the colonel only shuts the file and says nothing in reply, they shift back to the road. “...some say it was in a lot of pain. That the only thing it ever said was ‘I want to die’, and then, well...”

_Oh, great! Just the sort of thing you want to hear about the person you’re going to be staying with for two months!_

If only Ed were as easily deterred such gruesome details. Sometimes Winry thinks he’s immune to such things. “But that’s just a rumor, right?”

“...correct.”

Al’s metal body creaks lowly as he turns his helmet to eye his brother curiously, but Ed hardly seems to notice. His own eyes are fixed intently on rear-view mirror, which is the next best thing to looking the lieutenant in the eye. “So it might be exaggerated.”

Mr. Mustang’s hesitation says more than it should. “There is that distinct possibility, yes.”

“Okay.” The decisiveness in Ed’s tone is like the snap of a suitcase falling shut.

And yeah, Ed may have a point. Back in Risembool, rumors zipped around like flies buzzing around an unsightly piece of roadkill, and often more than not they were just the concoctions of too much speculation done by bored gossips. But something about military gossip, chimeras... it adds an extra level of ominousness to it. Those rumors have to come from _somewhere_ , right?

She wonders if this whole arrangement is set in stone, if it’s too late to ask the colonel to find someone else. Maybe a professional in medical alchemy, or an actual expert on the Philosopher’s Stone. Someone, y’know, less _creepy_.

A shadow flickers briefly in Al’s eyes as he raises his helmet, a reflection of Winry’s own unease. He’s always been the more cautious of the two, Al. The less likely to run headfirst into danger.

Then Al raises his head, and something like a shadow dances in his glowing eyes. Caution, Winry’s own unease reflected back at her. “Mr. Lieutenant? ...what other things have you heard?”

Ed releases a petulant huff that nicely fills the lieutenant’s moment of hesitation.

Eyes flicker in the mirror. Mr. Mustang’s tone brightens as he replies with, “I hear his daughter is rather sweet.”

Between the actual words and the change in tone, Winry does a double-take. “He has a _daughter_?”

“From what I’ve heard, yes.”

It takes a moment for Winry to quickly reconstruct her mental image of this Shou Tucker person. So in addition to being the sort alchemist to dabble into something as—excuse the language, but chimeras make her _physically_ ill—depraved as chimera transmutations, he’s also someone’s father? How does that make sense? Like, she can understand an alchemist like Uncle Van being Ed and Al’s dad, because he never tried to play with living things like they were children’s toys. But what is this man like then, someone who can somehow be both?

“She’s young,” explains the colonel as she sets the file on her lap, folding her hands primly atop it. “A toddler, I believe. Considering that you have officially roped me into being your sponsor, you will be representing me, and thus be expected to be on your best behavior.”

A plaintive little noise whimpers its way through Al’s metal body as he bows his head. “I don’t think Brother _has_ a best behavior.”

Steel knuckles make impact with Al’s side. The sound of it echoes metallically through the space, hanging in the air for a few drawn-out moments, punctuated by the murderous glare Ed sends in his direction.

“That is a good example of what _not_ to do,” the colonel deadpans. “As is cursing. Do not curse around the four-year-old, Edward.”

Ed releases a little growl and Al approximates a sigh—and it is then that Winry realizes the colonel hasn’t said a single thing in Shou Tucker’s defense.

* * *

First Lieutenant Roy Mustang has spent enough time in the cogs the military machine to not be fazed by excessive shows of wealth anymore.

When he parks the car at the sidewalk just outside the sumptuous construction of Major Tucker’s residence, he is unfazed, because he has attended military balls in places bigger than this and seen opulence take the form of red velvet and vanilla champagne. This is no more than a pretty stone at the bottom of a running river, one among many that glitter and catch your eye. He’s inured to stately white stone walls that enclose mansions like a castle, or elegantly crafted wrought-iron gates. It all seems normal to him, these days, even if he himself isn’t among those with the luxury to afford it.

As he slides out of his seat and opens the door, though, he is met with the awed light in the eyes of the Risembool children—they stare at the white walls and the sloping roof as though stars have been set in their irises. From what he saw of the country town last year, such opulence is an oddity, something to behold and gawk at. They say that children remind you of the little wonders in life, the things that you forget are actually quite special. Maybe there’s some truth to that sentiment.

“This is where he _lives_?” It is armored Alphonse who asks that. Roy cannot help but marvel at the armor’s ability to convey human body language, adapt to the expression of such emotions. Even if the stoic helmet cannot emote, the feelings are conveyed well enough.

“One of the joys of hitting major is that your salary gets a big boost.” Which Roy wouldn’t mind, if he’s being entirely honest. His apartment now is rather barebones, and he’d like to have nice things. Or the money for nice things. “Not to mention that State Alchemists have large research grants.”

A familiar glint of greed is quick to take residence in Edward Hohenheim’s topaz eye as his brother emerges from the car. He spills out after eagerly. “ _Really_?”

“That research fund will be managed by your CO,” Colonel Hawkeye informs him with undue briskness. She follows Miss Rockbell in stepping out from the car, immediately falling into her instinctive stiff posturing. “Which will be me.”

“Wha— Why _you_?”

“Perhaps because of your decision to _forcibly_   _rope me into your little quest_.”

The kid swallows audibly and Roy stifles a snicker. There are very few who can withstand the ferocity of Colonel Hawkeye’s scolding tone, her scathing glare. It’s always fun to watch people grow uncomfortable when subjected to them. There’s just something oddly entertaining about the misery of others.

Of course, it won’t be long before Edward realizes how lucky he is to the colonel in his corner at all. Roy doesn’t have enough fingers to count the number of higher ups that would thrill at the prospect of having a young, malleable mind at their fingertips. Not to mention that Edward is powerful and intelligent, and can be molded into an ideal weapon. Precisely why he must be kept out of those hands.

(One of the many conditions they discussed at length last night over apricot schnapps should Edward Hohenheim truly be accepted into the military’s ranks.)

Refraining from comment (which is a requirement of his job, and he’s almost mastered the art), Roy closes the doors behind his passengers. They don’t seem to notice, too busy taking in the marble-white pristineness that is the estate. Personally, he’s never been a fan of overly large residences, always been a victim of practicality. Sure, it’s nice to show off, but after a while, that much empty space began to open up a void inside you, insert itself into your soul until something inside you was aching.

It also serves to remind him of the manor on the edge of Gegota. The house whose doorstep on which he showed up unannounced, fourteen and never able to shake the sense of mourning that the structure perpetuated. He wonders if the colonel is reminded of it as well.

If she is, there is no indication, no hesitation. Colonel Hawkeye presses a button on the side of the wall. With a click and then a moaning creak, the gate parts. “Come on, then.”

Like ducklings, the children trail after her, Miss Rockbell with her duffle bag and Edward with his suitcase and Alphonse towering over them both. Roy brings up the rear, trying to keep his eyes on the back of the metal helmet. Major Tucker will probably inquire about it. He hopes they have a cover story in place.

Soldier’s instincts have Roy taking stock of his surroundings before he even realizes it. Ruddy-shingled roof, clean white walls, a balcony on the top story somewhere—but the hedges look like they need trimming, and grass bursts around the cobblestone path in thick patches. The lawn is in need of mowing. One of the window shutters is crooked. Debris clogs the gutters. He frowns, taken by the oddness of it. Usually people who value their fancy things take good care of it.

When the colonel tugs at the doorbell, it releases a brassy noise. He thinks the lip of the bell might be chipped.

There’s a rustle from the bushes. Metal rattling, thumping steps, a blur of white—Roy’s battle instincts _scream_ and he reaches in one of his holsters for a gun—

Edward lets out a shout.

—and then Roy is pointing his gun at a large, fluffy-looking dog.

 _...dammit, Mustang, the war’s over._ There is the faintest tremor in his _traitorous_ hands as he clicks the safety back on and hastily slides his gun back into the holster before anymore notices.

Thankfully, the dog has chosen to lay itself flat atop Edward, so Alphonse and Miss Rockbell are more preoccupied with that than Roy’s little slip. Small mercies. “Guess everything’s big here,” Alphonse remarks with wry amusement.

This only serves to make Edward growl in frustration, squirming in an attempt to dislodge the white-furred canine. When he inevitably fails, because said canine is larger and heavier than the boy, he slumps and resigns himself to glaring. “ _Dammit_ , Al, get this demon off me!”

“How can you _say_ that about this adorable dog?” Miss Rockbell demands, planting her hands on her hips. The glint in her eyes is one of amusement.

Indeed, it’s a rather adorable creature. Big wet nose, a sloppy pink tongue, the sort of velvet-dark eyes that can steal your heart right from your ribcage without you ever noticing. Dogs are a blessing to this world. Not for the first time, Roy laments that he lacked a canine companion growing up.

“Because it’s _crushing_ me,” retorts Edward venomously.

“Perhaps it can’t see you without a magnifying glass,” Roy remarks. He can’t help how easy it is to tease the poor kid. Like, seriously. _Look_ at him. How can you not tease him? He wears a _bright red coat_ for God’s sake!

“Call me fucking short _one more time_ and I will _strangle_ you, you _stupid fucking bastard_!”

God. It’s too _easy_. “You couldn’t even reach that high.”

Cue the ferocious snarling. Kid’s better than a radio drama.

“Lieutenant,” deadpans Hawkeye.

Right, right, right. Act your age, be professional, you’re on-duty. Protocol is such a bother sometimes, honestly.

“Uh oh! Alex _and_ er!”

The sound of a new voice makes Roy glance up. The man standing in the doorway, slightly scruffy and dressed in rumpled plainclothes, must be Major Tucker. Owlish glasses are perched upon an oafish nose that compliments his egg-shaped face, with a speckling of brown stubble on his blunt chin. Brown hair is cropped close to his skull and does nothing to alleviate the pervasive ordinariness of his appearance. If he were wearing a uniform, Roy might have felt obligated to salute, but as it is, he only arches a brow and marvels a little, because again, the wealthy types usually try to look their best—although, Major Tucker strikes him more as the researching type of State Alchemist than the soldier type. But even then, he looks less like a scholar and more like your average joe.

However, at his feet is a girl with the same caramel brown hair as him—that is all the resemblance that exists between them, because she has big blue eyes like sapphire droplets and a cute little button nose and big, chubby cheeks that look like they would dimple when she grins. A pair of long braids drape her back in tight ropes, only adding to the air of innocence about her. Her wide eyes appraise Edward’s situation with something between fascination and the sort of open-mouthed amazement that comes so naturally to children.

“Nina,” starts Major Tucker, half-chiding and half-embarrassed, “I thought I told you to tie the dog up this morning.”

“Oopsie.” The girl, Nina apparently, flashes a sheepish smile up at her father, but doesn’t wait for it to sink in and earn her any forgiveness. Immediately, she is rocketing down the steps, brushing past Colonel Hawkeye without batting an eyelash, and then parks herself firmly in front of the dog. “Alexander, people aren’t cushions!” She snatches Alexander the dog’s collar, her gentle but insistent tugging making the tags rattle metallically. “Now c’mon, silly doggie!”

Miraculously, Alexander rises to his feet and steps away, then sits down on his haunches just a few inches away from Edward. Bewildered, Edward sits up, eyeing the canine as though he can’t quite comprehend this sudden obedience. It’s actually quite endearing.

“Uh.” Edward blinks dumbly at the dog, then again at the girl. When he isn’t being a difficult brat, Roy muses, Edward actually looks properly young. “Thanks?”

Nina gasps loudly.

“What? What’s wrong—”

“Your _coat_ ,” the little girl declares, and that is the only warning she gives before she runs headlong into the crimson folds of fleece. “It’s so _pretty_!”

...not really. But little girls in general have terrible taste, so Roy holds fast on the retort he feels coming on.

For a moment, Edward only stares in wonder as the little girl burrows into his coat. Then he bursts out into an absurd sort of laughter, and Roy swears it as though five years’ worth of maturity has just slid off his shoulders. “Well I’m glad you think so!”

At this point, both Alphonse and Miss Rockbell have begun to lavish the dog with affection, likely having held back earlier on account of it crushing their companion, though they watch with something like nostalgia as Nina proceeds to cocoon herself in scarlet fleece. There is a dull rustle of grass as Alexander’s tail begins to wag.

Needless to say, it makes for a very lovely scene. It’s the kind of thing you might put on a yule card, because the sight of it gives you a warm, fuzzy feeling in the pit of your stomach and makes it hard to suppress the smile.

Colonel Hawkeye chose well. These three are going to find themselves right at home in no time.

* * *

They are invited inside, because that’s the sort of thing you usually do when you have company. However, Major Tucker hesitates before doing so, and Roy is quick to see why.

If the house itself is a Fabergé egg, then the interior is the gooey yoke that makes you appreciate the pristine outside all the more. A glimpse at the kitchen counter shows that it is heaving with dirty dishes, plates with congealed foodstuff brimming in the sink and enough cutlery smattered amongst them to provide for a party of a dozen. The living room is all out of sorts, things either dislodged from their imagined proper placement or missing altogether. Books are scattered across the parlor, filling the coffee table and the furniture, a few having even fallen to the floor. Glancing in the hallway, Roy sees a laundry basket that can barely contain the mountain of soiled clothing that has been piled inside it.

“I’m so sorry,” Major Tucker says immediately as he attempts to frantically tidy up. Part of Roy wants to chalk the mess up to not expecting them to arrive so soon... but this is the sort of disarray that takes time to build. “Ah, the cleaning lady, Alba—she’s been sick the last couple of weeks. I’m not much of a housemaker myself and, well, er...” A hesitation. “...it’s just me and Nina, see.”

From the corner of his eye, Roy notices the Hohenheim brothers exchange a quicksilver look with one another. Nina is still hanging off the end of Edward’s coat, still cooing over the brilliant scarlet color, so she doesn’t seem to notice. But they both steal a glance at her, not so subtly—Edward’s expression, in particular, grows just a bit softer. Back in Risembool, the police chief mentioned something about the boys’ mother running out on them, and he wonders if that gentle light is empathy.

“It just needs a feminine touch—ah, sorry, that was sexist, wasn’t it?” Major Tucker glances nervously at Colonel Hawkeye, as though trying to judge how offended she might be at the remark.

Unfortunately for him, the Flame Alchemist is notoriously stoic, and gives away nothing. This only seems to make the major more nervous.

Everything about the Life-Sewing Alchemist strikes Roy as nervous, actually. Jumpy, nervous energy bristling beneath his simple facade. Not jumpy like _keeping my finger on the trigger in case an enemy suddenly appears from around the corner_. More like a _I don’t want to shoot anyone but I don’t want to die either_ type of jumpy. But then again, that’s him thinking in war terms again, and this is peacetime. He needs to find a way to disable the part of his brain that thinks these things, otherwise he’ll never be able to survive unless he’s got himself caught in some kind of conflict.

(Although, there _are_ rumors that the skirmish in Fotcett might reignite the war with Aerugo... Yippee.)

At some point, Nina has detached herself from Edward’s coat in favor of admiring her reflection in young Alphonse’s steel body. Miss Rockbell attempts to gently dissuade her, tries to divert the young girl’s attention somewhere else, but it seems that neither Nina or the brothers have noticed. At least, not until Nina grabs Alphonse’s leather fingers.

“Hey, mister?” Alphonse’s helmet tilts downward with a low, metal creak. If Roy were Nina’s age, having those soulfire eyes pinned on him would send him scuttling behind the nearest adult’s legs, but Nina only peers back unabashedly. “How come your clothes are all shiny?”

_Such a lionheart, this girl._

An urgent look is passed between Edward and Miss Rockbell, but Alphonse takes the question in surprising stride. “It’s a special kind of clothing called ‘armor’. It’s made of steel.”

This makes the little girl’s eyes go round and her little mouth drops open in wonder. “Innit heavy?”

“Don’t worry,” replies Alphonse with a striking gentleness, belying his fearsome visage. “I’m  _very_ strong.”

There’s a saying about children being intuitive, being able to pick up on a person’s soul faster than adults can. Roy wonders if this is why Nina doesn’t shy away despite the jutting spikes and the ominous glow set in that stoic helmet, if she can sense the gentle boy he used to be.

But then Roy catches Major Tucker staring, just a bit. The alchemist seems to notice Roy’s gaze and quickly turns away.

He catches the colonel’s eye, just for a fraction of a moment. Of the many risks they discussed at length, the discovery was one of them. Human transmutation is taboo in more than just moral code—the legislation in place condemns death upon the perpetrators. Enough is known about soul-binding that successful examples are few and far between, so Alphonse would likely be sent to a laboratory to be studied, dissected, try to find out what his brother did right. Edward would never get a chance to tell anyone, though, because he would immediately be sentenced to a firing squad.

_“You can’t force him to rescind his application,” Roy points out as he raises his glass. The mouthful of schnapps burns going down._

_“I think you underestimate my capabilities, lieutenant.” The look in the colonel’s eyes borders on smoldering, the sort of look that surfaces when she is imagining snapping her fingers and seeing the world turn to fire. She reaches out to seize the bottle by the neck. “And it’s for his own good.”_

_He watches silently as she refills her glass, the slosh and spill of clear liquid. You can justify a lot of things as being for someone’s own good. It doesn’t make you right._

_“Sir, if I may...” There is a chance she may hate him for saying this. More than a chance, actually. “Treating him like a child after what he’s been through—”_

_“What he’s been through could get him **killed** , if he isn’t careful enough to hide it,” she interrupts, and takes a swig of alcohol. It is perhaps telling that she doesn’t flinch at the inevitable burn._

_And yes, she has a point. Alchemists have three rules imposed upon them by the military in their practices, and a defiance of any one can result in a nasty consequence. On the other hand..._

_“Somehow, I think he’s already considered that.” Because no way he hasn’t. He’s an alchemist, and you should never underestimate the logical mind of an alchemist._

_“His actions say otherwise.”_

_“He’s a willful brat, sir,” Roy says bluntly, because that’s the truth. Kids are stupid. God, when he was that age, he did enough stupid things that he wishes he’d been able to drink then, just to render the embarrassing memories a blurry haze so they couldn’t torment him anymore. His elementary school has a **file** on him, for God’s sake. “But I don’t think he would willingly put himself or his brother in danger unless he could ensure their safety.”_

_Because they have more responsibility on their shoulders than either of them did at that age. And it isn’t fair to hold them to those same standards._

_“And the time they committed human transmutation?”_

_Again, the stupidity of children. But he can see that she doesn’t see it that way, sees this as another act of reckless abandon on their part. And maybe that’s part of it—but he doubts that’s all there is to it._

_“Alright, let’s try looking at it this way. What if trying to force him only makes him dig his heels in deeper?” Though her expression does not change, her fingers twitch slightly around the glass, and that indicates, at the very least, that she is listening. Considering. “What if he goes to someone else—Major General Hakuro, per se? Brigadier General Gran? Or, **God forbid** , Major General Armstrong?”_

_Because any one of them would not hesitate to have someone that brilliant and young under their command. Young soldiers are better for conditioning, after all. That’s why other countries out in the East have younger conscription ages. And the higher up are all too painfully pragmatic not to seize an opportunity that shows up on their doorstep demanding a pocket watch._

_“...damn you and your good arguments.” She drains her glass. It’s only her first to his third. “So, what? We just let a child join the military?”_

_It sounds **really** bad when she says it like that, but. “And keep him safe at the same time.”_

_“I hate this plan,” Colonel Hawkeye declares._

_And, well, so does he. “Maybe so, but it’s what’s best for both your career and for his wellbeing, sir.”_

_The alternatives, after all, are infinitely worse._

The chances of Major Tucker actually connecting the dots are slim to none. That is what Roy tells himself, even as he has to clamp down on the impulse to glance over at the children, lest the action give him away. Even movements can betray you.

Colonel Hawkeye glances at the major, her eyes giving away nothing. There is a reason soldiers have grown so stone-faced, after all. “Major Tucker, I do appreciate you agreeing to lodge these three until the exam. If at any point they become an inconvenience, please don’t feel obligated to keep it to yourself. They’re my responsibility, first and foremost.”

“The _hell_ does that mean?” Edward demands, perhaps forgetting that there is a young child in the room with him. He is too busy eyeing the colonel suspiciously to notice the scolding look Miss Rockbell throws his way.

“Oh, put that thought out of your mind,” replies Major Tucker amicably. “It’s an honor to aid the next generation of brilliant minds. You know what they say—children are the future, after all.”

It strikes Roy how blasé the major is about this. As a parent, you’d think he would be more concerned about a child being inducted into the military. Maybe it’s because Major Tucker has never seen combat, is a researcher rather than a soldier, but still...

( _reminds you of someone, doesn’t it Mustang? the old man certainly never cared about how old the two of you were as long as you had talent—_ )

Too late, he realizes he’s glanced the colonel’s way and quickly forces himself to face forward.

“Major Tucker took the exam just two years prior,” explains the colonel, sending a pointed look in Edward’s direction. If she is fazed by the major’s attitude, she does not show it. “He’ll be able to help you study for it.”

“I don’t need to _study_ ,” Edward retorts, like the willful brat he is.

That makes Major Tucker snort, but good-naturedly so. “Trust me, child, you do. It’s _monster_. Not the sort of thing you can prepare for with a nightly cram-session!”

A silent protest flashes across Edward’s face, but he has the decency to keep it silent. At least, even warped as it is, the boy seems to possess some sense of propriety. Or maybe it’s just because Nina has gravitated back over to him and he’s remembered just how impressionable young children truly are.

“Ah, Nina,” says Major Tucker, “why don’t you go play with Alexander out in the courtyard?”

“Aw, but _Daaaaaaaddy_.”

“Go on.”

The little girl gives a puff of annoyance and glances petulantly at Colonel Hawkeye, as though she can somehow supersede her father’s order. Bewildered, the colonel blinks, then subtly tilts her head towards the door. This earns another puff, and the girl turns to her father one last time with an entreating look which falls flat. Eventually heaving a sigh of defeat, she turns heel to trot out of the room almost pointedly so, her braids swaying like a pendulum.

Something blatantly fond glimmers in Major Tucker’s blue eyes as he watches her go, but he shakes his head the next moment and turns back to them with a practiced smile. “Come along, I’ll show you my library.”

If the house is a Fabergé egg, then the library is the glittering jewel set at its crown. There is no point in counting the multiple rows of bookcases, but the loosest estimate would be about three dozen as a minimum. Each one if carved from a lusciously dark wood, an exquisite brand that makes you feel luxurious just staring at it. Whoever carved them took great care in doing so, embossing stylized images of various animals across the lacquered surface—leaping fish, rabbits playing tag, the curling likeness of a prancing hart. Each shelf brims with enough expensive-looking tomes and glimmering titles to make any world-class mind hold their breath in wonder, the very air thick with the dusky aroma of aged parchment and treated leather. All of it is brought together by the elegant cream walls of the room, which nicely accent the rich color of the shelves pressed up against every surface. It’s as though Major Tucker specifically wanted to show off his prize, choosing the most tasteful room in the estate to compliment his collection.

Perhaps that says something about vanity. And perhaps it says something more that it _works_.

At the first sight of the library, Edward’s face alights with candid wonder. With his face that soft and his eyes this wide, he really does look like the little kid he is. “ _Whoa_.”

“This is your personal library?” Alphonse asks as he looks around, just as eager beneath his steel casing. His soulfire eyes dart around eagerly, though he remains stationary as his brother bustles pass him to throw himself eagerly at the shelves. “And _all_ these books are about alchemy?”

A sheepish smile emerges on the major’s face. “Oh please, this is _nothing_ compared to the Alchemy Floor in the Central Branch libraries.”

“You’re kidding.”

“The Alchemy Floors are five—six times this size,” explains Colonel Hawkeye calmly. “And there are five of them.”

At this point, Edward has already started plucking books from the shelves, but at this comment, Roy sees him pause—and the look in his eye says that this has only strengthened his resolve to earn that pocket watch. Which was kind of the whole point of the State Libraries in the first place, so hey, success on that front.

On the other hand, Miss Rockbell throws a disgruntled look in Alphonse’s direction. “Is this how you guys feel when I go into a hardware store?”

Roy stifles a snort of amusement. Meanwhile, Edward gathers up his little collection and then vanishes behind a shelf. Odds are he’s creating himself a little nest. Bibliophiles—endlessly amusing.

“You make it sound like we’re _obsessed_ ,” Alphonse remarks, just this side of offended.

“Look, I like books as much as the next person and all, but I don’t see the point in getting all excited about—”

She is cut off when an antique grandfather clock in the corner (which Roy failed to notice initially, whoops) releases a deep, sonorous chime. Or perhaps melody is a better term, though it cuts off abruptly in a manner that suggests it only plays a fraction for every fifteen-minute interval.

But Miss Rockbell’s eyes alight as she glances over to the corner. It’s a particularly nice-looking clock, notes Roy in an absent-minded manner as he follows her gaze, elegant in its simplicity. Unlike the bookshelves, the wood that makes it up is an aged caramel, the swinging pendulum in its windowed belly faintly tarnished in a manner that only adds to its appeal. The actual clock-face is a smooth, creamy white, with stylized hands and Xerxean numerals writ in gleaming silver.

“...is that—” She inches forward a step, transfixed. “Is that a 1732 Tegand model?”

“Why yes.” Major Tucker blinks. “How did you...?”

The gravity of the clock draws her forward another step. “With antique brass gears? And a Kitchener-brand mainspring? A-And—oh my god, are those _titanium_ _clock hands_?”

Bemused, the major turns to the colonel in askance. Alphonse approximates a sigh as he places a large leather hand over his face.

“Hey, Mr. Tucker?” Her hands twitch almost absently. “How—How attached are you to that clock?”

“Er... why do you ask?”

To this, Alphonse raises his hand and fixes his friend with the armor equivalent of a stern look. “Winry, don’t.”

“But Al—those kinds of gears aren’t even _made_ anymore!”

“Even _more_ reason not to take it apart.”

Meanwhile, Roy catches a glimpse of Edward in the corner. The twelve-year-old seems to have made himself a little nest out of books and has begun engrossing himself in knowledge, going so far as to take on three tomes at once.

“Should I be worried?” Major Tucker asks, his voice lowered to keep the remark private.

Roy can’t help but add his own two-cenz. “About anything specifically or just in general?”

Predictably, this does not mollify the Life-Sewing Alchemist. Even more predictably, Colonel Hawkeye sends him a disapproving look. But c’mon, it’s a trio of kids who managed to single-handedly defeat a dozen and a half armed terrorists on a high-speed train. _Not_ worrying would be an act in imprudence.

“Hughes and I will be handling all the documentation of your application.” Colonel Hawkeye raises her voice enough to draw attention back to her, even going so far as to tint her voice with the stern, commanding authority that usually makes people automatically turn their heads. Unfortunately, Edward is still nose-deep in alchemy texts and doesn’t even deign to raise his head. The nerve of this brat. “We may need to contact you for certain details here and there before the month is out, so keep that in mind.”

“Brother,” Alphonse prompts when there is no immediate response. When there is still no response, the armored boy gives another approximated sigh and turns to them in a manner that can only be described as apologetic. How expressive his eyes are—they more than make up for his metal visage. “Sorry. He gets, um...”

As Roy observes the boy’s rapid-eye-movement across the pages, he can’t help but muse that the colonel gets the same way with her paperwork. He’s almost tempted to chalk it up as an alchemist thing, actually.

“No need to apologize,” replies the major with a mild smile. “You know what they say about young minds—how they only burn as brightly as the kindling they’re fed.”

...oh boy.

It is not noticeable unless you are very familiar with Colonel Hawkeye or unless you are watching her very closely, but her eyes narrow just a fraction in displeasure. “Indeed.”

“Just imagine! The record for youngest State Alchemist surpassed only four years after being set.”

The Life-Sewing Alchemist, Roy decides, is officially lacking in all subtly and tact.

Again, it is almost imperceptible, but the colonel’s shoulders tense. “Indeed,” she repeats blankly.

At this point, Miss Rockbell has subtly tried to sneak over to the grandfather clock, but Alphonse has noticed and they have been quietly bickering. This comment, however, makes them still.

“What’s the previous record?” It is Alphonse that asks, innocent enough. He’s eleven and too young to know what it means.

“Seventeen,” replies the major blithely. And from a civilian’s standpoint, this isn’t such a big deal, only one year off the official enlistment age. At eighteen, you can be drafted, can enroll in the Academy, can become a junior cadet. It’s just one year, right? Who cares?

When _actually_ , one year makes a big difference. Hell, eighteen may be too young to enlist.

Apparently this gravitas is not lost on Miss Rockbell, who casts a glance at them with furrowed brows. “Who holds that record?”

Major Tucker, in a miraculous lack of subtly, glances at Colonel Hawkeye. She avoids his gaze almost devoutly, passing it off as worriedly peering at her so-called protégé.

Understanding dawns on Miss Rockbell’s face. “You—”

_She looks so small, hunched over that makeshift grave. It is just a single broken stick jabbed into a sloppy mound of dirt, but it is the second most pitiful thing Roy has ever had the displeasure of witnessing. The first has soiled, gritty gloves upon which that lethal array is stitched, with clumping blonde hair smudged black from soot._

_“It was yours to take.” Barely eighteen, the uniform seems to swallow her whole, her body sagging beneath the decorations of a major, beneath the weight of the pocket watch dangling from her hip like a Yuletide ornament. Like a dogtag. “I offered it to you. I didn’t want it. I told you—I told you to **take**  it.”_

_No words offer themselves from the parched, broken instrument of his throat. The hunch of her back is made stoic by the navy wool, conceals what he knows to be hidden beneath it. Yet for just a moment, the mirage of it bares itself to him—scarlet ink tracing complex, artistic curves along the delicate arc of her spine, the space between her shoulder blades._

_“Why didn’t you **take** it?” she demands, and her voice breaks, and they are all just shards of the people they used to be, bound up in these damn blue uniforms. Except the porcelain white of her gloves breaks beneath stress fractures, heat fractures, tracing the shape of that damnable matrix. “ **Why** , Mustang—fucking answer me that.”_

_**It wasn’t mine to take** , come the notes, the song of denial, but they are just a pretty lie sung to a pretty tune. Three years ago, the emptied remains of Master Hawkeye’s study, secrets were offered up like a blood sacrifice, ripe for the taking. But wounded pride stayed his hand._

_And now, she has taken the burden wholly._

_When she rises, it is like watching something jerk upright, wooden and stiff, like watching ivy tangle itself across the length of a decrepit brick wall. Gnarled, twisted, an eyesore on what was once something lovely and compelled to ruin it by forces that even it does not understand._

_“It should have been you.”_

_His lungs constrict. “I—”_

_“It **should have been you** ,” she repeats, and his mouth tastes like ash._

“Youthful indiscretions,” the colonel monotones, and Roy can see that she is there, four years ago, watching herself reach out to accept the damned watch. “Everyone has them.”

And this, unfortunately, Edward raises his head for, an accusation flashing in his topaz-colored eyes. _“Wait_ —you’ve been giving me shit about enlisting _underage_ and the _whole time_ you—”

“I’ll leave them in your hands, Major,” she interrupts, sharply. “Once again, you have my thanks. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we have to get back to the office. That paperwork won’t do itself.”

There is an accusation in the way Edward narrows his eyes, but it remains unanswered as Colonel Hawkeye turns and marches out the doorway—every bit the trained soldier she shouldn’t be.

( _it should have been you she shouldn’t even **be** here this is what you did you miserable_ _—)_

Shit. Roy dogs her footsteps, silent, wondering how socially acceptable it would be for him to slip a drink or two at work. He’ll probably get court-martialled if anyone finds out—good thing the colonel is partial towards him.

* * *

Winry wonders, briefly, if this is what an “epiphany” is. If it is a realization that jolts you down to your bones, alights something in the caverns of your cranium that was once shrouded in ignorance. If it is blinking swiftly and then opening your eyes to find that an infinitesimal shift has taken place in the world, a minute nudge that causes everything to _click_ into place.

Colonel Riza Hawkeye set the record for youngest State Alchemist four years ago.

( _click_ )

Watching the woman and her lieutenant retreat, Winry feels like she has only just seen her for the first time. Her shoulders are broad in that uniform, but they also seem strained, too-stiff in how they held her body upright. Winry has seen shoulders like that before—shoulders that don’t want to leave but are compelled by a higher duty, one that draws them away from safety and straight into a great terror.

By the time she raises her eyes, Riza Hawkeye is already gone.

“Excuse me,” she hears herself say as she brushes past Al and Mr. Tucker. Al lets out something in a questioning tone, but it is lost to the low hum that settles itself in her bones, compels her into movement.

Before she realizes it, she is marching down the hallway. On some subconscious level, she is aware of where she is going of her measured gait and the thumping in her ears. But that is all she is aware of, the invisible strings that jerk her body forward, tug her muscles into action.

It was her shoulders. Those shoulders are just like...

_“The military is no place for children,” the colonel retorts, but beneath the harshness of her tone is a buried note of—something. It’s strained and afraid and Winry dares not call it desperation, because that’s not what it is... right?_

Faster, brisker, moving forward like you’re half afraid the entrance will disappear before you reach it. The colors of the Tucker mansion are starting to smudge around her as she quickens her pace. Winry thinks back to those eyes from back then, to the steel that marked them, the fire and brimstone that swirled in their burning depths as that woman stood in the doorway, telling Ed to move forward. To move forward.

Move forward. Why those words? It’s such a simple phrase, so common you almost wouldn’t pay it any mind.

_“It’ll be dangerous.” The woman’s voice is not unkind—but it is also as ruthless as a parring knife. Like she forgot what it means to be soft. “You realize that, don’t you?”_

Almost.

And then the world around her is just a whisper of color blowing past her. Just a murmur beneath the rapid thunder her own footsteps make against the floorboards, but she hardly notices any of it, caught in the throes of her own pounding heart.

_“Youthful indiscretions. Everyone has them.”_

What does that _mean_? What is it that makes that woman so opposed to Ed joining the military young, when she herself had done the same—

Four years ago.

At age seventeen.

_Those shoulders...!_

All at once, the nip of autumn is thrust into her face as she emerges on the porch. Beyond the gate, the military car is crouched like a sleek black predator, curled in on itself as though ready to pounce, or perhaps too afraid to. The colonel is already halfway there, and she looks not unlike a living blade carving her way forward.

“Miss Colonel!”

At the sound of Winry’s voice, both soldiers pause, and in unison, they turn. Bemusement is quick to flicker in Mr. Mustang’s eyes, followed by a reassuring sort of amusement that has him arching a single brow. But this time, she is not looking at him. This time, he is not the one she turns to first.

Riza Hawkeye’s eyes are _so intense_. It’s like someone learned how to transmute liquid fire and distill it into those carnelian depths, let it swirl round in the vortex of her irises. It’s the most striking thing about her, and so it is effective in drawing attention away from what might have been flaws, if you were looking—the faint shadows that mark her lower lids like bruises, the way her lips are faintly chapped, the faint crease on her forehead like she’s furrowed her brow far too much.

Seventeen. Four years ago. The pocket watch glitters at her hip.

(Riza Hawkeye does _not_ look twenty-one)

“I...” Winry’s heart thunders in her ears. Now that she thinks about it, those earrings—they have the same sterling silver brightness of polished automail, don’t they? “I just...”

“Yes?” Such a firm, unyielding voice.

Something in Winry quakes, and whatever she was going to say gets stuck to the roof of her mouth like thick peanut butter. All she can see is those burning eyes, the twin glints of those earring studs.

“I wanted—” What is this strange aversion to speaking, all of a sudden? All of the words just seem to burn up on impact.

_I wanted to ask you why you decided to join the military. I wanted to know your reasons. I wanted to know why you look so much older than you actually are._

But instead, what comes out is, “I just wanted to tell you t-that I like your earrings.”

This earns a surprised blink from the alchemist, her stern expression immediately faltering. And in that brief moment of confusion, she really does look young.

“...thank you.” The colonel looks very uncertain of how to take this, but Mr. Mustang’s lip twitches in an almost congratulatory smirk. She turns away briskly. “Your... hair looks nice.”

Dumbstruck, Winry absently reaches up to touch her scalp, watching as both soldiers make their way down the path. The gate snaps closed behind them, as though barring them from entry, and in that moment she cannot understand for the life of her why—what would be so bad about these people that you’d forbid them in your home. Because...

Because they’re _just_ _people_.

_The military, huh...?_

Both colonel and lieutenant climb into the car. The engine stirs to life with a lovely purr of combustion hydraulics.

And then they just... drive away, recede into the distance. Winry refuses to look away, to go inside, despite how the cold air is starting to numb her exposed arms. She could go inside, grab the coat that was discarded in the closet, but the simple act of turning away feels like a disservice, somehow.

The car turns the corner, and she can see no more of it.

_I don’t know anything about them at all._

* * *

Dinner at the Tucker house is a quiet, subdued affair.

With the Hugheses, the energy was rich and warm and it settled over you like an old patchwork quilt, a little too heavy for you to be fully comfortable and kind of itchy at times but filled with caring sentiment. It had been almost unbearable for Ed to endure it—after being put through the emotional wringer that day, he wanted nothing more than to hide in a library somewhere, sleep, anything other than go through the motions of playing house.

By contrast, Mr. Tucker doesn’t really pry. He doesn’t ask uncomfortable questions just this side of personal like Mr. Hughes, doesn’t hum or treat Ed like a little kid the way Gracia did. For this, Ed is grateful. He’s treated like the adult he is, the adult he deserves to be, and it inspires a fondness for the State Alchemist that not even the library could. So yes, Ed definitely likes Mr. Tucker.

On the other hand, the food isn’t as appetizing as Gracia’s cooking. It’s ordered in from some nearby restaurant that is willing to deliver in exchange for an extra fee (which Mr. Tucker can pay, because he’s fucking _loaded_ , yet another reason to like the guy) and already lukewarm by the time it reaches the table. But Ed is never one to complain about food unless it’s _really terrible_ —which this isn’t—and so he weathers it silently.

Nina, all bright smiles and _dimples_ , of all things, carries most of the conversation, drawing out amused giggling from Winry and lighthearted replies from Al. She excitedly fires off questions at a rapid pace and is never satisfied with the answer, and Ed can’t help but think she’d make a good alchemist when she grows up, if she desires to put that curious mind of hers to use.

And because she has such an attentive mind, she is quick to notice that Al hasn’t touched his dinner at all and huffily points with the end of her fork. “Bigger Brother!” she complains, because she seems to have unceremoniously adopted them as her older siblings, and Ed would be annoyed that she confuses height with age if the next thing that came out of her mouth wasn’t, “You need t’ _eat_ if you’re gonna get big an’ strong!”

Which prompts Al has to patiently relay the flimsy lie they came up with about trials and alchemy training, wearing armor at all times, no eating in the presence of other people, all fiction crafted to gild the surface of an ugly, horrifying truth. Mr. Tucker quirks a brow in askance, but Winry is quick to change the subject to a friendlier topic, one that won’t inevitably lead to the realization that Al’s body isn’t _real_ , isn’t _there_ , that he’s living a _halfway existence_ because—

( _just give him back i don’t **care** what it takes—_ )

After dinner, Al takes his plate to their shared room (Winry ends up bunking with Nina, because childhood friends or no, some people just aren’t comfortable with co-ed) and offers it to Ed. He reluctantly chokes it down around the bubble of nausea now lodged in his esophagus, because it’s _his fault, his fault, his fault_.

Blessed distraction comes when Mr. Tucker offers up some preliminary reading material, a few suggested titles from his personal collection. To Ed’s surprise, there are a few essays on politics and economics, along with a book on Amestrian history that Ed has not touched since he was nine and decided that he had nothing left to learn from the schoolhouse.

Something on his face must show his bewilderment, because the State Alchemist explains, “You are applying for a military rank. As such, there usually are some questions on the exam relative to these topics.”

“Are you _serious_?” Ed expected the whole thing to be on alchemy. _Just_ alchemy. He’s not good at things that aren’t alchemy—especially politics. _Fuck_ politics.

“They’re not the forefront of your concern, and even if you do get them all wrong, it won’t mean you’ll fail the exam.” And here, Mr. Tucker offers a bland smile that might be amusement. “Still, it improves your overall score to have some familiarity on the subject.”

Which is how Ed ends up spending his evening nursing a book on Amestris’s political and economic history. The _horror_.

“You look like you’re having fun,” Al muses wryly after Ed has managed to wade through the excruciating boredom of the book’s first half.

With a furious huff, Ed snaps the book closed and then tosses it aside. He knows Dad would probably scold him for the careless treatment, but fuck it, it’s an _economics_ book. Economic are the _literal_ bane of human existence. There is nothing more boring than fucking _economics_. “Alphonse. I have reached a _very important conclusion_.”

“Oh?”

“The economy is _shit_ , the government is full of _assholes_ , and we need to hop a train to Creta _before it’s too late_.”

This incredibly accurate remark earns a longsuffering sigh from Al, who closes the door behind him as he steps in. Which makes Ed frown, because he could have sworn Al was in the room with him the whole time. “That bad, huh?”

Well, he’ll ask where Al went later, because the latent furor thrumming in Ed’s veins demands release, lest it get forever trapped in the marrow of his bones. “See, the problem is that Creta is the _best_ option. Which is _saying_ something, because up until half a century ago, it had _fucking slavery_.” And that is perhaps the worst thing you can say about a country, that it enslaves its fellow man for its own profit. It was Xerxes’s darkest spot and even now, the mere idea of indentured servitude is sufficient to make his blood _boil_. “Oh, but it’s not the worst one! ‘Cause Aerugo’s got an old-ass monarchy without a constitution or a senate or any kind of citizen representation. So there’s that, that’s fucking great, real stand-up job there, jackasses. And _Drachma’s_ got this thing called ‘communism’—whatever the fuck _that_ is—which means they have censures up the whazoo. Like, they don’t even trust their government to _run_ itself, either, so there’s all these crazy-ass laws and, just, _ugh_. And then Xing—fucking _Xing_ and its fucking _succession_ is a fucking _nightmare_ of assassination attempts and minor civil wars and— _fuck_.”

Holy shit, Ed is actually _panting_ , his heart pounding hotly in ears. See? This is why politics suck. All it does is get people needlessly worked up and ranting because of how phenomenally it  _sucks_.

Having settled on the opposing mattress, Al watches him in a silently inquisitive manner, one that might be an onlooker’s amusement or an onlooker’s exasperation. It’s hard to tell with Al, sometimes. “Are you done?”

“And _then_ ,” Ed starts again, because no, he’s not done, buckle the fuck up, because then there’s the country they actually  _live_ in, “Amestris’s system is _completely jacked_ in the military’s favor. Like, y’know the senate? _Well_ —turns out they only get to make decisions when we’re in _peacetime_! Except Amestris is _always_ at war, whether it’s a standstill or an armistice or even an outright conflict. Technically, we’re not at peacetime right _now_ because of what’s going on in Fotcett—I didn’t even _know_ about that, but apparently some serious shit’s going on down there—and there’s the stalemate at Briggs and Creta that _still technically count as war_. So _basically_ , the military’s in power right now, because whoever wrote our constitution is an _idiot_ and the government is a _massive clusterfuck_ and the country is going to _shit_.”

There! He fucking _said_ it. It feels _so good_ to get it all out. Motherfucking _catharsis_.

“Anything else?” Al asks dryly.

“As of a matter of fact, _yes_.” With a groan, Al throws his hands over his helmet-face, but he’s the one who asked! Ed is so very offended by this that he launches into another tirade, purely out of spite. “We need to figure out a new economic system. Not that capitalism doesn’t _work_ , but it doesn’t work _right_ , because it _sucks ass_ if you’re not one of the fatcats in politics. So yeah, we need a new form of capitalism. Otherwise—actually, you know what? It doesn’t matter. We’re already in the shit. It is _literally_ impossible for this country to get any worse.” Ed breathes in deeply. _Damn_ that felt good. “ _Now_ I’m done.”

Al eyes him warily. “So it’s all out of your system now.”

“Yes.” Ed falls back against the mattress with a huff. Fuck. That was actually exhausting. Like, physically exhausting. Once again proof that politics is a madness that afflicts humanity and must be done away with for the collective sanity of the human race. “So, hey, where were you?”

“Huh?”

“You came in the door.” Ed jabs his thumb in the general vicinity of the door. Being on his back, the ceiling occupies his general field of vision and he really doesn’t want to sit up again. So, pointing. “Where were you?”

“Oh.” A creak as Al leans forward. “I heard some noise and went to check on it, but it turns out it that Nina roped Winry into a tea party.”

That statement brings forth memories of deigning to play house with Winry, Al cast into the tolerable role husband or the uncle or something else bearable while Ed was forced to be the dog. Talk about the degrading. “It took you that long to _check_ on them?”

“Huh? No, I kinda... got roped in too...”

Of _course_ he did. Because Alphonse Hohenheim is bleeding heart who persuaded their father to adopt five cats, who is too nice for his own good and can’t stand to disappoint anyone. “Yeah? And how was that?”

“Pretty fun, actually,” Al admits, and it is pitiful that there is not trace of shame in his voice. Like being dragged into a tea party isn’t an indignity. “She introduced me to all her stuffed animals. I had to, um, sit on the floor because the chairs were too small... but other than that, it was really nice.”

Ed snorts. “Sounds like a pain.”

“It wasn't at all! I... I really liked it, actually.” The following sound of metal scraping is telltale of an armored shrug. “I dunno. It was nice to pretend for a while.”

Something about how Al says that strikes a discordant note in Ed. “Pretend?”

“Yeah. I mean... it’s almost a little like before, don’t you think?”

When Ed turns his head to glance over at his brother, he sees that Al’s helmet is pointed towards the open window. Beyond the flutter of gauzy drapes—either a remnant of the house’s previous owner or a product of someone else’s judgement, because no way Mr. Tucker chose those—the night sky hangs like a curtain of tar over the world. It’s smoggy and black, thick enough to choke you if you tried to breathe it in. Not like the clear, starry skies of Risembool at all... but that’s not quite what Al means, and Ed thinks he understands that, to some degree.

Gracia’s house had a warm familiarity that was too similar to home, the memory too raw and fresh. It’s not quite as present in Mr. Tucker’s stately halls, but Nina’s laughter still resounds brightly enough to call forward those same recollections.

“...I guess so.” _This will never home. No place will. We gave up home, and anything like it, almost a week ago when we burned our house down, remember?_

“Do you think we were ever like that?” Al asks suddenly, turning back to Ed. A nostalgic glint has taken residence in his soulfire eyes and something in Ed aches a little at the sight of it. “Like, little kids, I mean. We must have been, at some point, but... it’s hard to remember, sometimes, after everything that’s happened.”

That’s...

Dammit.

This is why they don’t—why they don’t reminisce. They burned their house down for this very reason, because there’s nothing to be gained from looking back. Home’s gone and Dad’s gone and that past is gone and there’s no getting it back.

The SACE is in December. After that, the new year will begin—

—and Al will have officially been in that body for a whole fucking year.

( _your fault_ )

Phantom pain throbs in Ed’s ports, a constant reminder. He tries not to pay it any mind as he sits up, tries not to wince at the way heavy metal tugs his body like the weight is trying to split him apart. It’s been a year. A year. He should—should be used to it by now. “You know what we should do? After we get your body back?”

“After _we_ get our bodies back,” corrects Al, voice ringing with conviction. It belies the metal hollowness that’s come to accompany it.

( _i don’t care about myself_ )

“Right.” Ed scoops up the discarded Book of All Horrible Things and shows Al the cover, purposefully calling upon his most devious expression. “We find the grave of this Adam Smythe guy—really dumb fucking name, by the way—and then _we burn it down_  because _he’s the one who did this to the world_.”

Cue the exasperated sigh. “ _Bro_ ther!”

“I am _dead serious_ ,” Ed says, even as grins, setting the book back down on his lap.

Al huffs something close enough to laughter to make Ed’s hackles to relax, then shakes his helmet-head. “You _really_ didn’t like that book, huh?”

“It’s fucking _history_ , Al.” Ed always hated history. It was his least favorite subject in school—too many names and dates and old fuckers who nobody really cared about anyway. Why such uselessness needed to be imparted upon this generation with such strictness, he’ll never be able to understand. “The hell made you think I _would_ like it?”

“You were reading it pretty fast.” Al leans forward, eyeing the offending book. “How far in are you?”

“I dunno. Like half, I think.” In all honest, Ed was too pissed by the idiocy of previous generations to keep track, but half sounds about right. “Pretty shitty half. The rest better be interesting or I’m chucking it out a window.”

“You read half of a book you hate in just two and a half hours?”

“What?” Ed steals a glance at the clock and—holy shit. Holy _shit_. It’s only been two and a half hours. What the fuck.

That’s— Incredible is not the right word, for that is too narrow a description of the sheer _impossibility_. Yes, he’s a fast reader, he and Al both always have been, just like Dad was. But even Dad took hours to read dense books like this from cover to cover, and those were the ones he was avid enough about to capture his interest. This was a subject that Ed loathed, every paragraph an endeavor in misery, and to trudge all the way to the middle of this volume should have taken him at _least_ an entire day.

This does not make sense. How did this—

...and then he notices it.

It’s subtle, but the Gate’s humming tickles at his mind, silent and clandestine, like a secret you’ve forgotten you were carrying until suddenly you remember it.

Shit.

Oblivious to the way Ed’s body tenses, Al’s amusement takes the form of a low chuckle. “Not interesting, huh?”

“Hey, what can I say? This is the most important test I’m ever gonna take!” Ed gets to his feet, starts gathering up the books, piles them in his hands. Their weight feels damning, somehow. “Of course I’m gonna study hard!”

But even as he says this, he turns to the part of the Gate that decided to nestle itself in the back of his skull and bristles. _First you dump shit in my brain, then you mess with my alchemy, now this? The fuck else did you do to me, you bastard?_

Though the Gate chooses that moment to silence itself, it departs with a sensation that is as terrible as Truth’s brilliant grin.

 _Bastard._ Ed sets the books on the desk and tries not to glare at them. Because it is not the books’ fault he has some— some— cosmic _whatever_ stuck in his cranium. That’s on him and his decision to knock on God’s domain (if Truth can even be called “God” and, frankly, Ed would rather die than acknowledge that fucker as anything _close_ to divine). 

“Speaking of which, it’s kind of late, isn’t it?” It isn’t late. It’s not late at all. If it were summer, the sun would just be setting right about now, and it is only by virtue of autumn that darkness has prematurely descended upon the world. “Maybe I’ll turn in for the night.”

“Really?” Al sounds surprised, and rightfully so. The last time they went to bed this early was when they were li— _young_. When they were _young_.

“Yeah. Those books were exhausting, y’know?” Ed fakes a yawn and wow, it sounds really unconvincing. Yawns are hard to fake. “Anyway, I’m too pissed to keep reading anymore. Might as well, right?”

“If you say so.” Al still sounds unconvinced, but he doesn’t protest, doesn’t pry.

Ed has never been more grateful, in that moment. Because Al still has his ignorance, doesn’t remember the Gate, didn’t have his brain fucking rewired—

And he has a _right_ to it.

Once the lights are off and they exchange their “goodnight”s, Ed buries his face into the pillow and swears that Al will never have to carry that burden. The Gate is not going to claim anything else from him, not even his little brother’s mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! Plot advancement!
> 
> Several things I would like to ramble about:  
> \- Worldbuilding! So, I started thinking about the scientists working the government labs, specifically Marcoh's team, and I had to wonder where they came from, because they obviously weren't State Alchemists themselves. And there obviously had to be a process by which these people were vetted and it was decided that they were discreet (and possibly crazy) enough to carry out these immoral experiments. How? Well, I made my own answer.
> 
> \- In the Nationwide Transmutation circle timeline, the Fotcett skirmish happened in 1911. Yes, I did research on this. I am a nerd. Any other questions?
> 
> \- Ed's a scientist, and thinks in chemistry and mathematics. And based on my experience in school and from observing my classmates, I noticed that there's a clear line between mathematical thinkers and literary thinkers when it comes to history. Mathematical thinkers look at dates and numerical values rather than treat history like a narrative, so they tend to struggle more. Also, politics and history go hand-in-hand, so if you don't like politics, you probably won't like history. 
> 
> \- It's been confirmed at some point or another that Creta has a republic or a democracy for its government structure, and because of its western location, I liken it to the FMA equivalent of the US, so the reference to slavery in Creta is a reference to US slavery, which was formally abolished in 1865 (after a very mess civil war, granted).
> 
> \- I believe Prince of Dawn and Daughter of Dusk confirm that Aerugo is the FMA equivalent of Italy (though I haven't played them myself, admittedly). It's established that there's a monarchy, and Italy's constitution was written in 1947 (although most European countries didn't start establishing democracies until after WWI, so...).
> 
> -The father of modern capitalism is Adam Smith, whose name I changed slightly to created an FMA equivalent. I think he would weep if he could see how corporatism has sprung up, hijacked capitalism, and ruined the economy of the western world.
> 
> Now that that's out of the way! I had a lot of fun writing Roy POV, and I'm very excited to move into the whole Tucker arc. And I REALLY LIKE THE FACT THAT RIZA AND WINRY INSPIRE EACH OTHER TO GET EARRINGS/GROW THEIR HAIR OUT SO I KEPT IT IN SUE ME.
> 
> Ahem.
> 
> As always, questions or needed clarifications are available for any who need it. Constructive criticism is also always appreciated.
> 
> Sincerely,  
> The Immortal Moon


	21. One For The Record

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once Gracia determines they are safe, she leans forward a little, dropping her voice as a precaution. “I can’t even find _birth certificates_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for 100 kudos!

_“‘Tis not enough to help the feeble up, but to support them after.”_  
—William Shakespeare

 

_~1911_

“In case you were wondering,” says Gracia casually over the dull chatter of headquarters’ Cafeteria B, “I have a preference for angel’s food cake.”

A frown finds its way onto Riza’s face, and for good reason. Up until now they were discussing the Chopper case, the serial killer that has been haunting Central’s streets for the last three years—first emerging in 1908 and remaining sporadically active up until 1910, when the killings then proceeded to abruptly drop off, only to resurface just last week. While there are a few men among the victims, the majority are young, pretty brunette women.

What does this have to do with angel’s food cake.

Clearly this question must have shown on her face, because Gracia flashes a sharp little smirk. “For the going away party you’re _not_ throwing me.”

“I’m not throwing you a going away party,” Riza deadpans.

“Right, right. _Alex_ is throwing the party. But you and Roy are bringing the cake.” The knowing glint in Gracia’s eye renders her coy smile ineffectual.

Well. Damn. “It would appear as though I have a rat.”

“It’s very sweet.” Cruelly ignoring Riza’s newfound crisis of a leak, Gracia polishes off her sandwich and then closes up the casefile she really ought not to have brought with her—mustard and such. The crime photos are messy enough on their own. “I just wanted to spare you the embarrassment of accidentally bringing the wrong cake.”

“For your information, I _was_ going to bring angel’s food cake.” Riza takes this to mean that they are going to revisit the Chopper case at a later date and folds up her own dossier with a sigh.

“Oh, good. Captain Focker seems under the impression that I’m a fan of lemon cake and I’m really not, so I wasn’t sure how accurate your information was.” Gracia cleans her fingers with a napkin, far more daintily than most women soldiers would bother. “He’s a good egg though, Liam. I’m going to miss the team once I’m on mat-leave.”

All Riza can muster in response is an absent-minded hum. The knowledge that Gracia will not be perpetually at headquarters starting next week births a series of conflicting emotions. On the one hand, it is comforting to have an ally within this viper’s nest of politicians, a friend working behind the scenes in the covert folds of the Intelligence department, always ready to sneak over a file or extend the occasional favor. On the other, it will mean her husband will no longer be compelled to check up on her, the calls inevitably directed to Riza’s office because someone in the operator’s office clearly has it in for her.

From a political angle, she is losing her in with the Intelligence department. From a personal angle, her friend is having a baby, starting a family, and Riza is nothing but happy for her.

“ _Speaking_ of parenting.” Gracia leans forward, steepling her hands atop the plastic tabletop, her eyes acquiring that intelligent gleam that so many people miss, just because she happens to be a woman. “I did some digging on those wards of yours.”

 _This_ gets Riza’s attention. The Hohenheim brothers—her wards, as Gracia so beautifully put it, as _everyone_ in HQ has taken to so beautifully putting it—arrived in a bang and a flourish in early October, and now, on the cusp of mid-November, applications for the SACE are becoming final. Unfortunately, Riza has quickly run into the same problem she had when she initially met them in Risembool.

I.e., a borderline criminal lack of documentation.

And without those documents, Edward’s application can’t go through.

All pretenses aside, part of her _wants_ those documents not to show up. The rest of her dreads Edward turning to someone else, someone willing to forge papers just to get him enlisted. Someone ruthless and callous, who will not hesitate to throw him on the frontlines. There are certainly enough of them eager to get their hands on this supposed prodigy—news has spread to every corner of Central Command, to the point where it’s become the daily gossip of the newly-graduated cadets. Even the press has picked up a few whispers and rumors, churning out a few scandalous headlines that call the military’s morality into question (as though it weren’t already). Some officials are already raising their voices to claim that they would provide a better environment for the boy.

Opportunists, all of them. She needs to claim him as hers if only so the rest of world gets the message to _back the hell off_.

“And?” Riza keeps her voice calm. Oh so calm. Her tea is getting cold.

Gracia exhales through her nose, which is never a good sign. “It really is baffling.”

“You’re _kidding_.” This is Gracia the Bloodhound Hughes they’re talking about. If she can’t ferret those papers out, then no one can.

“I’m not. It’s _odd_ , Riza.” Urgency lights Gracia’s face and she takes a quick look around to make sure no one else is listening—no one appears to be, because the cafeteria is mostly empty, save for those too wrapped up in their own conversations to pay them mind. Once Gracia determines they are safe, she leans forward a little, dropping her voice as a precaution. “I can’t even find _birth certificates_.”

...fantastic. “So we can’t even prove citizenship.”

“At the moment?” A strained, apologetic smile is offered. “I’m afraid not.”

Wonderful. _Another_ headache. The military is a toxic enough environment for those who don’t look Amestrian—just look at how Ishvalan officers were treated in the years leading up to the war—but it’s an unspoken rule that only citizens can apply for the State Alchemist program. You can _become_ a citizen, of course... but naturalized citizens have an inherent advantage.

_As if the Chopper case and Edward’s application weren’t **enough** to make the press call my office constantly. Now they’ll start speculating about his country of origin. ...and ask me for a soundbite, probably. Great._

“And there’s more.” Gracia’s voice drops to a lower register and the hairs on the back of Riza’s neck prickle in anticipation. “I figured it wouldn’t hurt to start looking into the source—you can find a lot of interesting information when you look at the source.”

“Their father, you mean.” Normally “source” means parents, plural, but not in this case. “Van Hohenheim.”

“Right. But here’s the _thing_.” And the intensity that overtakes Gracia’s green eyes has Riza gripping her tea mug tightly. “He doesn’t _exist_.”

“...what—”

“I can’t find _anything_ on him,” explains Gracia rapidly. She casts another glance at their surroundings, once again determines that no one is listening, then turns back to Riza. “He has less records than the boys. Legally, the whole family _does not exist_.”

...this is a lot to take in. Riza may need a minute. Hold on a sec.

How is it that a family can legally _not_ _exist_? It would be one thing if they were immigrants, weary travelers of a war-torn country that would not be welcomed in xenophobic Amestris, thus having to wear the skin of a nation that is not their own in order to avoid discrimination. But the Risembool police chief said Van Hohenheim was born and raised in that small town, same as his sons, that those bucolic green hills were their birthplace. Unless that man lied, this makes the family naturalized Amestrian citizens. With the homegrown and hardy blood of the rural world rather than the vain egocentricism that permeates urban life, of course—but Amestrian nonetheless. Furthermore, the name “Hohenheim of Light” still occupies breezy whispers in the corners of small eastern villages, so there must have once been a carrier of that name, thus proving conclusively that an individual named Van Hohenheim once existed.

Existence, of course, mean he _should_ have papers. His _sons_ should, too, have papers. How do they not have papers? Is it some kind of conspiracy or something?

Oh, please let it not be a conspiracy. Please. The brothers Hohenheim are already guilty of human transmutation. Don’t add more to their risk factor, dammit.

Gracia unsteeples her fingers and lays them flat on the table, trying very hard to remain professional despite the clear concern in her eyes. “I also tried to look into the _mother_... but I couldn’t even find a name, so, that was a dead end if there ever was one.”

“From what I understand, she didn’t play a very prominent role in their childhood.” Up and vanished, the Risembool police chief said. Not died, but left. It baffles Riza, really, how flippant he had been about it. Or maybe something like that—outright abandonment—can only be treated flippantly, lest it become the ugly wound that it is, brimming with gangrene and infection beneath the oozing scab.

_If you aren’t going to love your children, why have them in the first place?_

A surprisingly bitter stab worms through Riza’s heart at the thought, and she has to brush it aside lest she get drawn back into a past she left behind when she took up the State Alchemist’s mantle.

“...Ed kind of gave me that impression, when the subject was brought up.” Gone is the countenance of a sharp-eyed agent, replaced by a worried mother biting her lower lip. The change is shocking, and Riza wonders when Gracia became so... _maternal_. “Riza, those boys... There’s more to the story, isn’t there?”

Shit. She figured early on that keeping the brothers’ secret from Gracia would be a challenge, but Riza hoped she would have lasted at least three months. Longer than three weeks, at least. “I—”

“There was this _look_ in his eyes, Hawkeye—it’s like someone who came out of war.” Gracia’s hand comes up to massage her left temple, the simple gold band of her wedding ring gleaming like a winking eye. “That look doesn’t just _happen_. And Al says he wears armor because of some alchemy training, but I’ve _never_ heard of anything like that, and Ed has _two_ metal limbs. _Two_. That _also_ doesn’t just happen, especially because he’s _twelve_. So clearly, _something_ went wrong in their childhood.”

...wow. That did not take any time at all. Riza should probably talk to Edward Hohenheim about his _profuse lack of subtly_ before he gets himself found out by a stickler general who is more interested in enforcing rules than amassing pawns.

With a sigh, Gracia drops her hand, because like Riza, she is not unfamiliar with looking the other way, if need be. “Just—tell me it’s not something horrendously illegal. No organized crime or—or doomsday cults. _Please_.”

The sheer absurdity of it—of the fact that Gracia has collected so many details and yet completely missed her mark—has Riza muffling a snort of amusement. “Gracia, I assure you that Edward and Alphonse are not part of a cult.”

A sigh parts Gracia’s lips and she nearly slumps in relief. “Oh thank _God_.”

Riza’s tea has cooled sufficiently by the time she takes another sip. It tastes strangely bland. Perhaps that’s why it was served hot in the first place. “Don’t worry, Hughes. I have everything under control.”

Because they aren’t even Gracia’s responsibility. Not really. Not when she has a baby on the way and a husband with enough nervous jitters to make one wonder how she manages at all. Not with her mat-leave coming up, she should be resting, too much stress is bad for fetuses you know.

And besides, Riza _does_ have it under control.

Kind of. Mostly. This whole no documents thing is kind of a problem, but she’ll work it out.

Hopefully.

“I sure hope so.” Gracia cracks a smirk that is half amusement, half grimace. “Those crazy brats have made me rethink wanting a son.”

Riza can’t help but chuckle lightly at that.

* * *

Ed growls a curse as he scribbles the would-be letters out. Good fortune has taken Nina out of the room and away from his expletives, but even then, the frustration boiling beneath his skin is sufficient that it really wouldn’t have made a difference. It should not be _this_ fucking hard, goddammit!

He can feel Winry’s eyes peering over at him from the kitchen—where she is currently cooking oatmeal, because without her reluctantly taking on the role of homemaker, they would surely all starve. Right now, he hunkers at the counter, taking with him a small portion of relevant notes and books that work effectively to ensconce him in the aroma of parchment. His wrist is sore from constantly fighting with the pen in his hand to form something legible, and even then the final product is a misery to behold, vaguely resembling a toddler’s attempts to write.

“Having trouble?” she asks, which, wow, obvious much? The look he gives her must say everything, because she exhales softly through her nostrils and returns his glower with her own sympathetic look. “You’ll get there. Just be patient.”

Because patience is clearly his strong suit. “Or you could invent automail hands that are, y’know, capable of _writing_.”

Of course, he then proceeds to tune out the ensuing lecture about how automail technology is advancing steadily and maybe one day, such dexterity will be achieved by machines. But that doesn’t really help him _now_ , as he relearns how to right even the most basic of phrases.

But in truth, Winry is not the source of his ire, nor is the fact that his willingly-given arm has been replaced with steel. If he were given the same opportunity, Ed has no doubt he would do it again—but that doesn’t make it less _frustrating_. They say you can train your nondominant hand to write just as well as the other, something Teacher had made he and Al practice when drawing arrays. Now he wishes she’d also insisted on making them practice penmanship, because, _ugh_.

The main problem lies in the written portion of the SACE, which apparently involves more than just drawing arrays, according to Mr. Tucker. From what the State Alchemist said, the whole is long answers and short answers and even entire essay portions. Oh, and you’re graded for how legible your handwriting is, in addition to how you answer.

“You need to make your writing presentable,” were Mr. Tucker’s exact words.

 _Presentable. Hah!_ With a groan, Ed drops his head against the paper, because what he’s managed right now is either embarrassing enough to scribble out or just barely legible. The parchment is cool against his forehead, his failed attempts filling his vision. _I’m doomed. Goodbye Central Branch Library access. Oh how I would have loved to have met you._

Somewhere in the distance, he registers the sound of a door opening and closing, but it remains at the edge of his radar as he lets the ink of his failure seep into his skin. It isn’t until footsteps bound their way over to him that he glances down to see that Nina has spontaneously appeared, her cheeks rosy and still cocooned in her windbreaker as testament to her recent excursion outside. A scarf is wrapped thickly around her beaming face to keep it from freezing, her hands bound up in wool mittens. It’s chilly outside, after all—turns out autumn in Central is frostier, sharper, marked by curling fern-shaped crystals on the windows when in Risembool, it would take until winter for such things to form.

Oblivious to his foul mood, she beams up at him so wide that her dimples make an appearance. “Hi, Big Brother!”

“Hey, kiddo.” Something in him softens at the sight of her, even more so when she wraps her arms around his flesh leg. It’s such a sweet, simple gesture, but it warms him. “You should take your boots off,” he adds as Al emerges clankingly from around the corner. “You’re trackin’ mud all over the floor.”

Bewildered, the little girl glances over her shoulder to see the glistening trail of footprints left in her wake. “Oopsie!”

“Told you,” says Al, not unkindly, as he sets the paper bag of homemade dog treats on the counter. They probably just came from giving Alexander the Demon Dog his breakfast.

“How did Alexander like the treats?” Winry asks as she clicks the stove off. In the pot she stirs, the oatmeal steams and bubbles and gives off the enthralling aroma of a hot meal. It must be ready soon.

“ _Loved_ them. He almost ate the whole bag—our mistake for leaving it unsupervised, in hindsight.”

A triumphant grin spreads across Winry’s face. Automail, alchemy, cooking—Winry Rockbell is a perfectionist at heart, and any success only serves to encourage her. Ed wonders if this means she’ll be making dog treats every day now. He wouldn’t put it passed her, considering how she’s already gone around repairing things left and right until there isn’t anything left to fix.

Almost a month has slipped by since the Tucker estate has welcomed them into its fold. The great gilded halls are unfamiliar and standoffish, drafty in a way that would leave one feeling almost bereft—but Nina is a firecracker in human skin, bursting at the seams of her own energy, and somehow this incandescent will of hers has eased the transition. Granted, this place will only ever be a temporary lodging, but... there’s a hesitant peace to be found here, somehow.

Only days after their arrival, Winry stumbled across a volume of recipes that she immediately saw as a challenge. When she isn’t tinkering like the obsessive gearhead she is, then she’s teaching herself how to cook in by rigorous trial and error. In the meantime, Mr. Tucker’s personal library has fully enveloped the majority of Ed and Al’s, long afternoons spent in the quiet solace of reading, a luxury that hasn’t truly been theirs since before Dad passed away and their lives became consumed with human transmutation. And on the off-moments where they aren’t obsessing over studying for Ed’s upcoming exam (E-Day, they call it, that day in December when Ed will be confronted by a monstrous stack of papers to judge his intelligence and his prowess), or learning new things about alchemy that they never realized they never knew, then Nina arrives in a flourish of laughter and imaginative games to preoccupy them all.

It’s such a dissonance from the past year. So slow and borderline domestic, when set against a backdrop of the misfiring transmutation and the grueling rehab and fending off terrorists and—

(Majhal)

—but it’s not _bad_. Something about this place has embraced them, however reluctantly, and even though it is an awkward fit, it offers a sense of comfort Ed thought was lost after Dad fell deathly ill. It’s not as intensely present as it had been at the Hugheses’, but still, it’s enough for him to release the tension in his shoulders and  _relax_. And just when he was starting to forget what that meant, too.

At some point while he was musing, Nina has discarded her winterwear on the chair next to him. Before Ed can chide her about putting things away, she scrambles up onto his lap and quickly makes herself quite at home. Her dimpled smile is enough to stay any protests, not that he has any, having already grown accustomed to her bursting energy and boundless curiosity.

Said curiosity has her pawing at the papers, which in turn draws Winry’s and Al’s attention to them.

“Oh yeah.” A low creak sounds as Al leans over Ed’s shoulder. Ed has an irrational urge to throw his arms over the papers to keep him from seeing. “How’s the penmanship thing going, Brother?”

_...there is no good answer to that question._

As demonstrated by Nina, who takes one look at his most-recent sentence and declares, “That’s _really bad_.”

“Thanks for the endorsement,” Ed mutters. Kids. They don’t pull punches.

“It’s... not _that_ bad,” says Al, but the hesitation tells Ed everything he needs to know.

_Thanks, little bro. Love you too._

“Oh, c’mon. You’re _exaggerating_.” Winry’s arm suddenly snakes out to snatch the parchment away from Nina and Al’s critical eyes. “ _Ohhh_. That’s... _very legible_! I don’t know _what_ you guys are talking about.”

Right. _Legible_. Not only is that not a compliment at all, but she also changed her tone halfway through to that false brightness, so. Ed props his elbow up on the counter and rests his chin on his fist, arching a brow. “Oh yeah? What’s it say?”

A panicked look briefly flashes across her features, but she is quick to smother it, turning back to the parchment and squinting. The effort is simultaneously touching and aggravating. “Er... well. It says... um.”

“Okay, I know you guys are trying to help,” Ed drawls, annoyance raking freshly across his ribcage, “but you’re just pissing me off, so stop.”

Meanwhile, Nina grabs at his prosthetic hand and marvels at it. Not in a _oh wow what is this strange alien thing you’re so weird for having_ way, but more in a _this strange thing is so neat and I want to understand how it works_ kind of way. He’s even started wearing his gloves less around the house, just to indulge her curiosity.

In Risembool, automail was as common as it was common knowledge not to discuss it, this tragedy immortalized in steel that hangs off the body in an eternal absence that not even prosthetics can replace. But Nina peers at the joints and the screws without reproach, but instead with a fascination that borders on adoration. It flatters him, somehow.

“It’s _really_ not that bad,” Al insists, snatching the paper sheet from Winry’s hands. Unfortunately, his grip is just this side of too rough, so it ends up crinkling in his clumsy fingers. Which is fine by Ed, because he’d rather just crumple the thing up and burn it.

“Right! It could be _way_ worse,” Winry adds brightly, as though that somehow makes it less terrible. “Like, have you seen Mom’s handwriting? Indecipherable!”

“You realize you’re comparing my handwriting to a _doctor’s_ ,” Ed deadpans.

They share a helpless look with one another. Ed takes that to mean they’re going to stop now, which is good because meaning well is about the worst thing you can say about a person. Meaning well absolves nothing.

Having fulfilled her curiosity over his steel hand, Nina turns back to the remaining sheets of paper. “Why’re the letters all curly?”

Sighing, Ed reclaims the sheet Al holds and sets it back down with its brethren. All of them are significantly worse than what Al and Winry have been trying to make light of. “‘Cause it’s cursive.”

“What’s that?”

“A needlessly fancy way of writing that makes you look smarter.”

“What’s this letter?” Nina aims her index finger at a malformed capital “t”. Or maybe it’s a capital “g”. Ed can’t even read his own handwriting. _Wonderful_.

Before Ed can sink into a fresh swell of depression, Winry abruptly claps her hands together, drawing everyone’s attention to her. “Who wants breakfast?”

Yes. Food. Food is always a welcome distraction.

“I do, I do!” Nina squeals, immediately forgetting about Ed’s loathsome attempts at cursive. Thank god for little kids and their short attention spans.

“Put your stuff away first, kiddo.” Ed gestures to the chair next to him, still boasting Nina’s hastily discarded winterwear in a graceless heap. The little girl huffs disappointedly, but is otherwise keen to obey, vaulting off Ed’s lap and quickly gathering her things before she darts off to find the closet.

As Winry starts ladling out portions of steaming oatmeal and Ed begins clearing his materials away to make room for said oatmeal, he feels the prick of eyes on him. When he glances over his shoulder, though, Al is quick to look away, trying to cover up the fact that he was even staring at all. He’s been doing that a lot, recently—glancing Ed’s way when he thinks Ed isn’t paying attention. It’s always brief, a mere flicker of eyes darting in his direction, but sometimes Ed will catch glimpses of guilt or something else similar to that, and hell, Ed doesn’t need Al to worry about him. Ed isn’t the one who needs worrying about.

 _“After_   _ **we** __get our bodies back,” corrects Al, voice ringing with conviction._

Al is—Al is too nice for his own good. Honestly.

Of course, Nina returns just as he’s gotten up to distribute cutlery. Part of him instinctively tenses, because he is not setting a place for Al (which aches, it always aches) and she always asks why, never seeming to fully grasp that Al can’t eat (well, can’t eat in front of her, to her mind, because of the clever-flimsy lie currently in place). But this time, mercifully, she finds something else to occupy her—a spare sheet of parchment with a hastily-scribed array he drew for practice.

“This is like Daddy’s!” she exclaims in wonder.

“That’s a transmutation circle, Nina,” replies Al from behind the counter. “It’s what allows someone to perform alchemy.”

This information seems to fascinate her, makes her eyes widen and compels her to look upon the array with a fresh flare of awe. “Really?”

Ed settles himself over her shoulder and taps his metal fingers against the edge of the circle. “Uh huh. First you draw a straight circle—it’s gotta be perfect, otherwise it doesn’t work right. See how it’s completely round?”

Her little face scrunches adorably. “Um. What’re all the lines for?”

“These,” he says as he taps the web of geometric lines and shapes, her eager eyes following the glint of steel fingertips, “are what’s called a ‘matrix’. Or a ‘lattice’. The terms are interchangeable. You see how it’s mostly just shapes?”

Ever-attentive, Nina’s eyes drink in the drawing as though it were the most important thing in the world. “Uh-huh?”

“Well, sometimes, transmutation circles have these special pictures called ‘glyphs’,” he explains, “or squiggly little lines called ‘sigils’. But this one doesn’t have any.”

“Ed, stop boring her,” Winry chides from behind. She’s set up a tray off to the side, probably for Mr. Tucker—who rarely, if at all, emerges from his laboratory in the basement, to the point where they’ve grown used to delivering meals to the door. That part of the house isn’t available to them, though, one of the few limits imposed upon them, so they just knock tentatively and leave it there.

“I’m not _boring_ her!” Ed retorts. There is nothing boring about alchemy and it baffles him how she can say that, when she was the one who wanted to learn from him. Huffing indignantly, he turns back to Nina. “See, everything in the world has a different composition. The circles need to be given instructions depending on what they’re doing. So each one is a little different.”

There is a chance Nina might not even understand what he’s saying, because words like “interchangeable” and “composition” aren’t something that most four-year-olds understand. But she seems to take a moment to process this information, a thoughtful gleam in her eyes. Looking back at the array, she remarks, “So it’s kinda like making a wish.”

“Huh?”

“Like when you make a wish an’ you blow out the candles,” she says, waving her hands around for emphasis. The parchment flaps at the gesticulation like a flag caught in the wind. “You gotta close your eyes an’ you gotta think _real hard_ about the wish. You gotta make it—make it— _spe-si-fic_ —so it comes true! So it’s like you’re drawin’ your wish!”

A little smile breaks out on Ed’s face, simultaneously incredulous and amused and delighted by this. “Yeah. Yeah, it kind of is.”

_I never thought of it that way before._

“ _Speaking_ of wishes.” Winry’s voice is the only warning Ed has before—

A glass of milk is plunked in front of him.

Hatred sears through him as he whirls around to meet Winry’s smirk. “Winry, _no_.”

“You want to get taller, don’t you?”

“ _The cost is too high_.”

“Milk has _calcium_ , Ed. It makes for stronger bones—”

“I’m _not_ drinking that _putrid white_ —”

“—and it’s full of _protein_ —”

“— _cow filth_. Humans aren’t _meant_ to consume—”

“—you’ll _drink it_ , or I swear to _god_ you’ll end up with a spanner in your _brain_.” She punctuates this by jutting out her chin and planting her hands on her hips, eyes blazing.

...it was so much easier when he had a concussion. Then he _knew_ that none of her threats had any weight.

Soft snickering draws his attention to his left, where Nina is covering her hands over her mouth in an attempt to stifle her amusement. This clearly leaves Winry dissatisfied, because his friend then proceeds to set a glass of orange juice in front of her.

Immediately, the amusement becomes a plaintive cry of protest. “But Big Sister! The pulp’s so _gross_ —”

“Orange juice is full of helpful vitamins and minerals,” Winry retorts, sounding very much like a schoolteacher.

Nina wilts dejectedly, her chin settling on the table top. She huffs, cheeks puffing in a moue. “It’s so _icky_ , though.”

Maybe it’s immature, but Ed finds some solace in someone else sharing his misery.

“C’mon guys, it’s _really_ not that bad.” Al has, at some point, picked up the tray that holds Mr. Tucker’s breakfast and is balancing it carefully with his leather gauntlets. This time, the burden of delivery falls to Al.

(For that, Ed does not envy him.)

“Yes it is!” Nina insists, pointedly widening her eyes.

“Just drink it really fast, then,” Al offers.

“Easy for _you_ to say,” Ed grumbles. “ _You_ don’t have to drink it!”

Too late, he realizes what he’s just said.

_Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit—_

“Guess you’ll have to drink enough for _both_ of us then,” replies Al cheerily as he disappears down the hall. Ed gapes openly, not caring how it looks, because he just said— how can Al act like that _wasn’t crossing the line_ — what the _hell_ — “Otherwise I’ll be taller than you _forever_.”

Fury swells to briefly eclipse his guilt. “I will be _twice_ as tall as you, _just you wait_!” Ed screeches after him.

Amazingly, Al answers with amused laughter, of all things.

Alphonse Hohenheim is a _wonder_.

“It won’t kill you,” Winry adds, picking up where Al left off. She marches back over to the stove with her blonde ponytail swaying behind her like a pendulum. “And you’re not having any oatmeal until you drink it.”

This is  _child abuse_ , dammit. Or, wait. Is it child abuse if the abuse is coming from someone his own age? It should be. Or maybe “peer abuse”. Yeah...

This is _peer abuse_ , dammit.

At that moment, a shrill ringing sounds from around the corner. Winry drops the ladle back into the pot with a frown and drifts over to the landline. As she picks it up with a polite, unassuming greeting, she positions herself so that her back is facing them. And Al already down the hall.

Ed turns to Nina, and she looks back, nodding her affirmation.

Lightning-quick, they exchange their glasses, milk to her and orange juice to him. He almost chokes as he gulps it down, narrowly forgetting to breathe. Once he’s done, he sets the now-empty glass of orange juice back in front of Nina’s place setting, to which she does the same with the vacant glass of milk. As one, they wipe their mouths with the back of their hands.

Perfect timing, too. The shuffle-clank sound of metal is a precursor to Al’s arrival, the tray now absent. He pauses abruptly, doing a double-take between the pair of empty glasses. Stoic countenance or no, Ed can feel the disbelief radiating off his brother so powerfully it saturates the air. “Did you actually drink...?”

“Of course we did!” Ed retorts in an offended tone. “We’re not kids, you know!”

“Yeah, Bigger Brother!” Nina chimes, just as Winry exclaims something excited into the phone. “We’re _mature_!”

Al makes a puzzled noise and lingers a moment longer, trying to find some fault or flaw that will give them away, then shakes his head as he returns to the kitchen. In said kitchen, Winry pauses thoughtfully, replying in a chipper tone to something said on the other end, delightedly oblivious to her surroundings.

After determining that the coast is clear, he and Nina beam at one another as they exchange a low-five under the table. Yet another success.

“Yeah, just one sec,” Winry says into the handset. Ed and Nina both manage to hide their grins behind feigned scowls of disgust just as she glances over her shoulder. “Ed, could you get Mr. Tucker? Miss Gracia’s on the phone and she wants to talk to him.”

“Uh. Okay.” That’s weird. Like, they’ve been getting a few sporadic calls from Hawkeye in the past few weeks, mostly to check up and make sure that yes, Mr. Tucker hasn’t figured it out, _no_ , they haven’t broken anything, _yes_ , he is _taking this exam_ , stop making him _repeat_ himself, dammit. But nothing from Gracia yet.

Still slightly bewildered, Ed rises from his seat. The end of the hall meets a staircase of gleaming ivory that ascends to the second level, curving outwards in a sort of concave on both sides with steps that are clothed in a sumptuous scarlet. But tucked behind those steps is another set, rickety and far less eye-catching, creaking as they descend unceremoniously down to what must have once been an old wine cellar, but has since been converted to into Mr. Tucker’s alchemy laboratory. The door that acts as a gatekeeper, sitting at the bottom of the steps as though it were discarded, is wooden and aged and deadbolted shut—it’s the kind of door that invites you to rap your knuckles against tentatively rather than knock clear and calmly against. Something about it always instills an irrational sense of nervousness in Ed, like a child walking up to a parent he knows is cross with him, has been stewing over their wrongdoings, and is finally ready to deliver a sentence.

It never felt like this when he approached Dad’s study, back when he was a child. There was no deadbolt on the door and it was never even fully closed, always opened just a sliver for the warmth of candlelight to cast a yellow slant in the hall. There was no unspoken rule about not disturbing Dad, either—and he always joined them for meals.

 _Every family’s different_ , Ed reminds himself. _Can’t expect Mr. Tucker’s lab to be like Dad’s._

Especially since Dad never dabbled in chimeras.

Unlike Winry, Ed doesn’t hold chimeras and the transmutation of them in disregard, doesn’t think of them as a moral depravity the way she does. Alchemy and biology alone are infinitely fascinating, but the combination of such is infinitely enthralling. Back when he and Al were first researching human transmutation, they dove headfirst into the murky waters of bioalchemy, and Ed was surprised to find the pull of intrigue much stronger than he anticipated. There’s something about the minute details of living things, every little cosmic embellishment of nature, that steals your imagination in ways you’d never expect.

And chimeras—chimeras are so much a part of that it’s dizzying. The people that specialize in chimeras, even the ones that lack finesse, still must be highly skilled and inducted in the disciplines of biology. Being able to merge the forces of nature with alchemy is downright _miraculous_.

(that doesn’t mean the noises Ed sometimes catches in the middle of the night are any less unnerving)

Something about the laboratory makes his heart quicken when he gets too close. Probably just the distant whiff of blood—which is to anticipated, given the subject. It’s like it’s not a big _deal_ , though. Geez.

Luckily, Ed manages to catch Mr. Tucker just as he’s emerging from the lab to collect the tray Al deposited earlier. Surprise colors the elder alchemist’s face as he pauses to peer up at Ed, who has stopped halfway down the creaking staircase. Not because the fact that the door is opened a crack unnerves him, oh no. The simmering darkness, seeming to breathe with its own life, does not send a chill down his spine. Not at all.

Ed keeps his gaze focused on Mr. Tucker. There’s a gaunt, wan look about the State Alchemist, heightened by the lines under his eyes that are indicative of too little sleep. His jaw is also a little scruffier than normal, thickening into what might be classified as a five o’clock shadow. Last night was probably spent pouring feverishly over books and research and newly-crafted specimens.

However, he doesn’t allow that to dampen his pleasantness. “Edward. What can I do for you?”

“Oh, uh.” Ed has to actively keep from eyeing those heavy deadbolts. They always have a way of pricking his imagination. “Gracia’s on the phone. She wants to talk to you?”

“Is that right?” Mr. Tucker blinks once in mild surprise. “Alright. Just give me a minute.”

There is movement in the darkness, noises. The shuffle and skitter of things moving in the shadows, claws casually raking their way across steel bars, restless growling and hissing somewhere in the shadows, whimpers arising from the unpleasantness of confinement. If Mr. Tucker notices them at all, he doesn’t show the slightest hint at being perturbed by them. Which makes sense, because he’s probably worked with chimeras enough to be used to them by now. Ed kind of envies that fortitude, wonders how long it must have taken to no longer jump at things like that. Fascinating as bioalchemy is, it can also be... uh.

( _gruesome, just like the results of the transmutation—did you see it edward? it’s ribs speared its chest and its organs were all over the place did you see what you did—_ )

Something croons. The hair on the back of Ed’s neck rises.

“Okay,” he says quickly, and only climbs back up the stairs to relay this to Winry. Not because the lab unnerves him. Don’t be ridiculous.

* * *

“I’m terribly sorry that I wasn’t able to clean up more,” apologizes Tucker for what feels like the umpteenth time.

Unlike most State Alchemists stationed in Central, Gracia has not come into Tucker’s circle yet. And though it is her job to be aware of his basic background, it is her first time meeting him face to face. She realizes only then how little she knows about him.

It’s clear from looking at him that he isn’t a combat alchemist—not like Armstrong or Hawkeye or even Basque Gran—but he isn’t a very impressive sight regardless of that, either. Still, something about his general demeanor strikes her, somehow. Maybe it’s the way his owlish spectacles catch the light, briefly hide his eyes from time to time, or the hollow way he regards his surroundings like a man deprived a good night’s sleep.

(different than with Riza, though, somehow, even after she stays up all night laboring on paperwork)

Regardless, she smiles pleasantly, because that’s what you do when you’re a guest in someone else’s home. You smile, laugh at their jokes, indulge their whims. It’s called “politeness”, after all. “Nonsense. We _did_ come by on short notice.”

Somewhere in the kitchen, Maes is making pleasant conversation with the children. Winry and Al in particular seem to be taken with him, while Ed maintains a wary distance in an attempt to pass off the façade of aloofness. Tucker’s little girl, though, is especially excited at the prospect of visitors, even if this is bright mood dampened by the fact that she has to wear a starched pink dress that Gracia understands to be her dress clothes. Dress clothes are inherently uncomfortable.

Gracia herself has traded her uniform for something more casual, but modish enough to uphold the premise of coming over for tea. This, of course, being a surreptitious pretense allowing her to get close to Winry and the brothers—they seem to trust her enough already, will probably trust her more in plainclothes. She needs them to be relaxed around her, unguarded, willing to have an open and honest dialogue. Those documents aren’t going to get filled out unless she can get them to spill.

Wow. It sounds kind of callous when she puts it like that.

Regardless of pretenses, it would be a lie to say she wasn’t hoping to see the trio again. They’re good kids, even if Ed has a tendency to swear under his breath and blow up over little slights.

“Nina leaves her things everywhere—and my housekeeper had to quit due to failing health,” explains Tucker as he scoops children’s coloring books and vivid crayons into his arms. The dining room table seems to have not seen much adult presence in a while. “I put an ad out in the paper, but I’ve yet to hear a reply.”

“You really don’t need to offer an explanation,” she insists. Maybe he feels bad that she’s also helping pick things up—stray stuffed animals and such, all of them very cute, she’ll have to ask where he found these for when the baby gets here—on account of her condition. But Gracia likes housework, strangely enough. Maes doesn’t really understand that, always worries that she’s pushing herself, adding stress to her body and to the baby, but it gives her something to do, something to occupy herself with. She isn’t the type to just sit back and do nothing.

Still, Tucker offers a sheepish smile in apology. “I’m afraid we don’t even have many refreshments stocked. The best I can offer is tea and that’s all.”

Just then, Gracia can’t decide if this is a genuine apology or the hint of some inferiority complex. Because that’s not something you usually admit to company—it’s almost like he’s going out of his way to seek reassurance.

“Oh, no worries,” replies Maes jovially from the counter. He flashes that dazzling grin of his, the one that instantly disarms. “We passed a convenience store on the way—I can just pop on by and grab something real quick.”

“That’s _really_ not necessary,” Tucker starts.

“Nonsense! I insist!” Another dazzling grin, only this time Maes directs it at the blond boy slumped in his seat, seeming not to be paying much attention up until now. “Say, Ed, why don’t you come with me? We can make a man’s trip out of it.”

Understandably bewildered, Ed blinks. “Huh?”

The boy is given no time to protest as Maes snags him by the sleeve of his scarlet duster and starts tugging him down the hall. “C’mon! It’ll be fun!”

“ _Wait a second_ —”

Oh dear. Though usually unintentional, efforts like this can distinctly come across as kidnapping—just because Gracia is used to it doesn’t mean the rest of the world is as tolerant of her husband’s incandescent charisma and his tendency to use it as a force of persuasion.

All she can do at this point is radiate a calm and reassuring demeanor to keep alarm from bystanders to a minimum. “Remember to wear a jacket! It’s chilly out!”

Ed’s protesting shout is cut off by the door shutting behind them.

Predictably, Winry and Al share looks of matching bafflement before turning urgently to Gracia. “Um,” Winry says.

“They’ll be back in a few hours,” Gracia assures. “Now, about that tea?”

The two exchange another helpless look with one another. Tucker eyes the doorway thoughtfully, but does not look particularly perturbed by the fact that someone under his care has just been carted off by a relative stranger. It makes sense for Winry to go back over to the kettle, for Al to sigh and then turn to stare at the door in reluctantly-accepted defeat. They both know Maes somewhat, are vaguely familiar with his quirkiness—Tucker is not, and so it would make sense for him to look more concerned.

Instead, he hums casually and disappears somewhere, ferrying his daughter’s belongings to another room.

...huh.

Not that she’s going to let this perturb her. Gracia is here on _official_ business, her last case before mat-leave evicts her from her office and she’s left to while away her days at home, with nothing but housework to occupy her. And as nice as housework is to inhibit a stifled mind, she really does prefer working with documents and such, so this one needs to count. After setting some of the stuffed animals aside, she settles herself at the dining table next to Tucker’s little girl.

Immediately, the girl’s eyes are on her swollen middle. Gracia is used to such open stares at this point, though, and only meets the toddler’s curiosity with a pleasant smile.

“I have a baby in here, you see,” she explains, patting her gravid womb. Twenty-five weeks and counting, the fetus’s weight and bulk is starting to prove just a touch cumbersome, but not unwelcome. The unborn child is starting to shift and move with the stirrings of life, and that alone is miraculous enough to make Gracia tear up sometimes.

Blue eyes widen further, amazement lighting the toddler’s features. “Really?”

“Mm hm. Wanna feel?”

Bewildered, the girl looks up sharply to meet Gracia’s eyes, simultaneously nervous and curious and desperately eager. Most people either don’t ask permission before reaching out or recoil as though pregnancy where contagious. But this little girl looks as though Gracia is handing her the world on a silver platter, allowed her to take a free sample. It brings forth a surge of warm fondness.

Tentatively, a pudgy hand is placed on the taught swell of Gracia’s abdomen. A second hand joins it. The little girl’s face twists into a look of intense concentration, as though trying to will the fetus into movement.

And perhaps, out of consideration, the baby obliges.

The girl’s face alights brilliantly. “I felt it kick!”

“R-Really?” Al asks, peering over the girl’s shoulder. Though his facial features are hidden behind the armor, his eyes glimmer through the eyeholes.

In that moment, Gracia can’t decide which is more amazing—the feeling of a life puttering into existence within you or the wonder in their eyes. “I think the baby likes you, sweetie.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a gift, Nina,” remarks Winry from behind the counter, just as the kettle whistles.

Tucker’s girl, Nina, is seemingly emboldened by this, and quick to plant her hands back on Gracia’s belly. She’s sure that whatever movement Nina feels now is from the twitch of muscles contracting from stifled laughter.

A tea set is ferried over by Winry—a rather expensive tea set, Gracia notes absently as the blonde begins to pour hot water into the teacups. They’re an extravagant brand of porcelain decorated by various oriental animals, all painted by a delicately-handled brush. It’s the sort of thing you might receive for a wedding gift (and Gracia would know, she got a decorative tea set as a wedding gift), not reserved for casual use. She hopes Winry got permission before pulling this out.

“So what brings you by, Miss Gracia?” asks said girl as she settles in the seat at Gracia’s other side.

Absently, Gracia bobs the teabag in the brew, watches as the clear, steaming water starts to slowly color. She’s never smelled tea like this—floral instead of earthy, subtly sweet, more like something you’d run into at an upscale coffeehouse that rich socialite women attend. It seems Tucker has very expensive tastes.

“Well, part of it is that I wanted to see how you three were doing.” Which isn’t entirely a lie. Since they parted ways, she hoped to encounter the trio again, maybe check up on them once in a while. “How’re you finding things?”

Winry is all smiles as she plops her teabag in. “Great, actually. Er, we mostly have the house to ourselves”—a subtle glance is shared with Al—“on account of Mr. Tucker working hard on his research. But other than that—it’s been really nice to just, y’know, _relax_.”

Something about the way Winry says that sets off a silent alarm. The implication that they don’t usually relax... Gracia trusts Hawkeye, she really does, but it doesn’t stop her from worrying.

“Of course, Brother still has lots of studying to do,” Al adds. The armor gives his voice a tinny echo that almost masks its youth. “So it’s not like we’re sitting around doing nothing.”

“Big Sister makes me drink _orange juice_ ,” Nina Tucker complains.

“Oh?” Gracia flashes a smile as she raises a brow. “And what’s wrong with orange juice?”

Nina pulls the most emphatic imitation of someone sucking on lemon. “ _Everything_.”

The three of them share a laugh at that, much to Nina’s puzzlement.

Well, they seem to be open enough... “But actually, Riza also asked me to pop by. There’s a bit of a problem with Ed’s application.”

Though both adolescents somber a little, it’s not to the point of defensiveness, not to the point where you’d think they were hiding something. So perhaps the shift in their expressions comes from the simple reminder that their companion plans to be inducted into the army—that would certainly dull Gracia’s mood. And that’s even if she hadn’t been to Ishval, hadn’t burnt beneath the desert sun or woke to the taste of sand in her mouth.

“What kind of problem?” Al asks, sounding no more than genuinely curious.

Up, down, up, down. Bobbing the teabag helps to facilitate steeping. It’s sort of a greenish brown, the tea. Still weak and pale but growing darker as the mix’s flavor saturates the water. “The documentation, mostly. Most of it is”— _missing_ —“incomplete or improperly filed, so there are rather large gaps in yours and Ed’s records.”

She watches their faces very carefully, trying to determine any flash of shadows or secrets—but when they exchange a look with one another, she cannot pick out anything beyond a general befuddlement. Her brow twitches with the urge to furrow. Were they not _aware_ of this...?

Al’s armor creaks faintly as he turns back to her. “What, specifically?”

Distantly, the sound of a phone ringing causes Gracia to glance briefly over her shoulder. The sound does not repeat, and she wonders if it was just her imagination. She turns back to Al. “Birth certificate and medical history—specifically.”

 _Incomplete school records, dental records, your names on the official registry... the list goes on._  But birth certificate and medical history are the big ones, an absolute necessity for even regular enlistment, much less State Alchemist licensure.

There’s nothing deep or brooding about the thoughtful look crosses Winry’s eyes, nothing that indicates that this is something to trouble herself over. “Mom and Dad handled all our check-ups, so they probably have those records back at home.”

Though in passing, Hawkeye did mention that Winry’s family lived next door to the brothers, that their families are apparently very close. “I’m given to understand their fathers grew up together,” explained Hawkeye factually after Gracia handed her a file on what little they managed to scrap up in regards to the Hohenheim family. “They address each other’s parents as ‘aunt’ and ‘uncle’, even.”

At the time, Gracia wondered if that was a cultural quirk that occurs in the East, because she’s never heard of that before. Now, though, she briefly considers the possibility that Winry’s parents might complicit in the missing documents—or worse, the cause.

That isn’t a very pleasant thought.

Nina is still roving her hands over Gracia’s tummy, and it’s at this point that Al, deeming that her actions are now approaching rude, sets the tips of his massive fingers on her shoulder. “With how forgetful Dad was, it wouldn’t surprise me if he forgot to file our birth certificates,” he remarks as he gently guides her hands away.

Discontentment takes the form of Nina huffing and crossing her arms. Al offers her a light pat on the head in condolence.

Nothing about either of their reactions hint at anything suspicious. Maybe they really _aren’t_ aware. “Is there anyone who could maybe draw up copies and have them sent to Central?”

Contemplation adds a furrow in Winry’s brow as she peers down at her teacup. The tag of the teabag hangs out awkwardly from the rim, black against the white porcelain. “I think Granny mentioned once that she was there when you guys were born.”

To Gracia, that sounds like problem solved, but Al draws back subtly, which she deems to be his version of a wince. “If she finds out Brother’s joining the _military_ , though...”

...well. It doesn’t really need to be said, does it? Gracia remembers the way some people eyed her out East, staring at her blue uniform rather than her face in distaste. Ishval hadn’t exactly been good for PR.

Memories of sand and blazing skies and unrelenting sun briefly invade. _Can’t really blame them, though..._

“...Mom and Dad, too.” Winry also winces, and Gracia remembers the wariness she’d seen the girl direct towards Hawkeye the morning of the trio’s departure. Perhaps distrust of the military was a family value in her household. “How the _heck_ are we supposed to explain why we need Ed’s birth certificate and medical history?”

Judging by the color of the brew, Gracia determines that the tea has been sufficiently steeped. She removes the teabag, sets it aside. Usually she takes her tea with cream and sugar, but there isn’t any to be had. “Having a copy of yours would be prudent too, Al. Just because there isn’t really anything there now.”

But Al doesn’t immediately respond. Doesn’t turn his head. Stares straight ahead as though he’s forgotten the world exists.

Okay, well, that’s worrying. “Alphonse?”

“Bigger Brother?” Nina taps Al’s gauntlet to garner a response.

A shudder moves through the metal plates, which makes Nina jolt back. You wouldn’t expect a suit of armor to shiver but, oh, you would be wrong about that. “I just realized,” Al says in small, sharp voice, “that Teacher is going to _kill_ us.”

 _The teacher who tasked you with the armor thing?_ “Kill you?” Gracia repeats.

“She always said that State Alchemists are morally bankrupt and that if we ever so much as _thought_ about getting certification”—another shudder—“she’d _skin us alive_.”

Uh.

Silence pans out for a long moment. Faintly, Gracia registers the muffled drone of Tucker’s voice in the distance—it sounds like he’s on the phone or something—but she is too busy trying to envision this teacher that can apparently inspire so much fear.

Clutching her cup, Winry blinks, half-worried and half-dubious. “S-She wouldn’t _actually_ —”

“She wrestled with _bears_ ,” Al blurts, which makes Gracia’s brain stutter _enough_ , but then he goes and adds, “And _won_.”

And maybe Gracia should be concerned about this. Call Hawkeye up and inform her that the Hohenheims’ teacher might show up unannounced one day. Maybe level the city. Alchemists on their own can be considered mildly dangerous, even the unskilled ones. Alchemists that win wrestling matches with bears and trained these boys, however...

“Bears aren’t scary,” Nina chirps and somehow, she’s managed to sneak her little hands back to the crest of Gracia’s belly. This whole baby thing must really fascinate her.

Rather than outright refute her, Al turns very slowly, looks her dead in the eye, and replies, “They are when they’re from Briggs.”

“Holy—” Gracia manages to muffle the rest of the expletive into her palm, but that does not change the fact that Briggs bears can reach up to nine feet and this teacher of theirs is suddenly _very_ terrifying.

Nina’s stubborn little pout is reminiscent of a rosebud before it blooms. This is the only warning she gives before, quite abruptly, she leaps from her chair, lands with a thump of dress shoes against hardwood, and then scampers off somewhere.

“Uh, Nina,” Winry starts, but then the bow-capped ends of the little girl’s braided pigtails vanish down the hall and she is left blinking at the spot she once occupied.

On one hand, this behavior is baffling. On the other...

Gracia’s fingers curl around the teacup handle, the porcelain smooth and cool against her skin despite the steam radiating from the cup. She hasn’t even had a sip yet.

Because this next part is a precarious ground that she hesitates to even so much as tread on. She hesitates because the subject alone makes her heart twist when she muses over it and the idea of removing a scabbing wound to reveal a gush of blood and puss has never been something she’s been comfortable with, even in spite of her profession. Even without her rudimentary knowledge of Tucker’s background, just bringing up the possibility in front of a young child is a tricky thing, like balancing a pencil on your nose and praying that it won’t fall off, otherwise you’re instilling an unnecessary fear in that young psyche.

Still, she dares to broach it, because any hint helps, when there are no records pertaining to an individual by the name of Van Hohenheim or the children he apparently raised.

“Alphonse.” With a creak, Al turns to her, and Gracia wonders if his eyes have always been that intense, or if it’s just her mind adding significance to his gaze where there isn’t any. “I... You don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want, but I have to ask...”

He tilts his head back, curious.

“It’s... It’s about your mother.”

The chime of a clock resounds somewhere out back, low and deep and sonorous. As the sound rolls through the air, Gracia feels everything tense minutely, feels it contract around them just enough to feel it. It’s not the crushing pressure she anticipated, a dead weight hanging in the air and bringing everything else down with it. But rather, it’s a subtle tightness, like the room itself is flinching and you’re feeling all the nerves stiffen beneath the skin. Something you would only notice if you’re paying very close attention.

Beneath her fingertips, the porcelain teacup feels like ice.

“Oh,” Al says, voice blank.

Winry shoots him a worried look.

This is... not a subject Gracia wants to dwell on, and maybe that’s for personal reasons (she can feel the child in her squirming in protest to her concern, as though to scold her, and isn’t that the silliest thing you ever heard), but still. Her grip on the teacup tightens. “It’s just—I couldn’t find her name anywhere. I only ask for the sake of records is all.”

“No, I understand.” He inclines the helmet slightly downward, hesitates for a moment. A flutter of nerves goes through her and she wonders if she’s struck a nerve, even with the evenness of his tone, but then he raises the helmet again. “It’s not... anywhere?”

“I’m afraid not.” Considering there was nothing for this woman to have a name _on_. But at least Gracia knew their _father’s_ name.

Another beat passes, Al and Winry exchanging a mildly puzzled glance. It seems this surprises them less than the revelation that the brothers’ records are incomplete, but Winry’s frown only deepens as the moments trickle onward.

“That’s...” Something tugs her brows downwards, pulls her gaze into her tea. “ _Hm_.”

“What is it?” Al asks.

She picks at the string of her teabag, seeming to contemplate allowing to steep any further. Finally, she pulls it out and sets it aside. “Do you remember the train station bombing in ’08?”

Gracia remembers hearing about that. Risembool, targeted for simply providing wool for military uniforms and because the station brought more soldiers to the warfront by the day. It was a fairly strategic move on the Ishvalan’s part—fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately, depending on who you asked), this gave the military sufficient reason to pass Executive Order 3066, and the war ended the next year.

But Al stares. “Uh... no?”

The teabag nearly slips out of Winry’s hand. “How do you not—” Pause, realization. “Ohhh, _right_ , you guys were in Dublith...”

Gracia curls her other hand around the teacup. Unlike the handle, the porcelain is warm to the touch, heat seeping through in a suffuse but pleasant balminess. “What are you thinking?”

“Well,” begins Winry, frowning back down at her tea. “The records’ building is sorta nearby, so maybe...”

Ah. Makes sense. “You think it’s possible the building sustained damage in the bombing?”

“I mean, it’s possible, right? Like, I don’t _remember_ it very well, but I know some nearby buildings burned down because the fire spread, so...”

That seems like a plausible enough explanation. Spreading fire would certainly eat at the documents, and even the impact of shrapnel could rupture pipes and thus create a flood. Either scenario has the potential to completely eradicate records.

On the other hand, Gracia called up the records building in Risembool and they hadn’t reported anything of that nature at all, had been just as baffled as she was to find the boys’ and their father’s records absent. They said they would look into it, see if it was some sort of filing error or something else of that nature, but whatever the cause was, a mere twist of fate was not it. The cause of those documents disappearing was either grievous negligence or maliciously deliberate.

Somewhere from behind, the dry sound of someone clearing their throat makes Gracia tense. She glances over her shoulder to see Tucker lingering in the hall like a shadow, only his pale face and shining lenses make him look a bit more... _conspicuous_ , than your average idler.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, and it strikes her how painfully bland his voice is. As though he’s going through the motions of existence. “I just want to inform you that I’m headed back down to the lab. General Gartner is, ah, insistent, you see.”

General Gartner—oh, yes, Gracia knows him well. A man in his late-forties with a dark mustache set over a smug smile and a notoriety for his brand of scorched earth justice. Not the patient type at all, not the type of person she would want to serve under the way Tucker does. That was probably what the phone call was about, because there are some higher-ups who don’t know the meaning of private lives. She still remembers one incident in which Brigadier General Edison called her while she was on her honeymoon to address some case or something (the details escape her), and she had to haul her ass back to HQ before she ended up demoted. Not one of the more stellar moments in her early marriage.

A pang of sympathy goes through her at the thought of Tucker having to report to the general, standing in that cramped office with his hunched, slouching posture and his eyes downcast because God knows Major General Hermann Gartner is not the person who will deign to look you in the eye if you are more than two ranks below him.

“Of course. I imagine it’s no easier with assessments approaching.” Right after the SACE, actually. Beginning in early January, as soon as excitement over the New Year has faded.

Something in Tucker’s face shifts—the twitch of a shadow, or a facial muscle, so quick that she nearly misses it. “Ah, no. Not... Not really.”

With that, he turns and walks out, sinks back into the hallway like he’s always belonged there. In an effort to keep herself from frowning openly as she turns back to the table, because that would be very impolite, Gracia lifts her teacup to her lips and takes a long, deep sip. The tea has cooled quite a bit since the conversation began, but the flavor is still there, strikingly exotic in its floral textures. Really nice, honestly.

With a clink of porcelain against porcelain, she sets the cup back down. “So, er...”

Luckily, she does not have to prompt more than that. “Her name is Trisha Elric,” Al explains, and it strikes her that he uses “is” instead of “was”. Gracia isn’t sure why—there’s no indication that the woman died.

...and is it just her, or does the name “Elric” sound familiar?

Hm.

He must interpret her pause as something else, because he inclines his helmet downwards to avoid her gaze and adds, “They, um, weren’t married.”

Oh.

That—she hadn’t been worried about that. Others might, but she isn’t.

(She remembers her own wedding, the white tulle and the vanilla champagne, exchanging vows at the altar with a bouquet of white tulips in her hands, Maes was so nervous...it’s her happiest memory, sure, but she doesn’t condemn anyone for not wanting to get married.)

“Okay,” Gracia says in what she hopes is a reassuring tone. “Trisha Elric.” The name tastes strangely on her tongue, faintly bitter, like a roll of dried herbs that doesn’t sit right in her mouth. It’s the name of the woman who left these two boys and Gracia can’t quite wrap her mind around _why_. “...I’m sorry to bring this up.”

“No, it’s fine.” Al’s tone is light enough for her to almost believe it. Almost. She can’t imagine anyone being “fine” with something like that. As though to prove her point, he adds, “Actually, I’m kind of glad you brought it up with me instead of Brother. He would, um.”

“Start glaring at everything in the vicinity like he thinks he can explode it with his mind?” Winry offers.

“ _Exactly_.”

Humor, they say, is an effective tool to cover pain. Gracia makes the executive decision not to mention this, not to call them out on it. Not all coping mechanisms are unhealthy.

Thankfully, interruption comes in the form of pitter-pattering footsteps. Gracia turns just in time to see Nina come to a stop in front of her chair. The little girl has something brown tucked in the crook of her arm, large enough to tip her balance if she’s not careful and to at least inhibit her efforts to climb back up on her chair. With a grunt, Nina plops into her seat—and then shoves the brown thing in Gracia’s face.

It’s a stuffed bear, Gracia realizes. With black beaded eyes and a plastic nose and big red ribbon tied around the throat.

“See!” Nina crows triumphantly. “Bears are _cuddly_!”

Even if Gracia wanted to, stifling the grin that spreads across her face is impossible. She takes the toy from Nina and makes a show of regarding it, squeezing it in all the softest places to determine its plushness. “So they are.”

A triumphant grin flashes across Nina’s face, but it doesn’t last long before curiosity eclipses it. She turns to Al, cocks her head casually, and inquires, “Did your mommy and daddy fight lots?”

With a jolt, Gracia realizes Nina was privy to parts of their conversation. She raises her cup and drinks to tea in an attempt to stifle the awkwardness.

“Huh?” Al looks briefly uncomfortable, turning to Winry for an answer, but is only met with a clueless shrug in return. Awkwardly, he turns back to the girl. “Uh... I don’t _think_ so.”

“Oh.” She sounds befuddled by this. “My mommy fought with Daddy a lot. And then she went to live with her family, so that’s why I asked.”

Gracia stills. Because that’s not—

That’s not...

For a moment, no one is entirely certain how to respond to that (least of all Gracia, on the cusp of motherhood herself, she _loves_ the unborn life in her belly more than her own and she can’t comprehend how someone can turn their back on that).

Al shifts away, earning a low, drawn-out creak from the rebellious steel plating of his costume. He seems to regard the ceiling for a moment. “I don’t really know where our mom went,” he admits. Another awkward beat. “Don’t know a lot about her family, either...”

“Speaking of families,” Winry intervenes suddenly, setting her cup down and turning to Gracia with subdued urgency, “Miss Gracia—did you and Mr. Hughes ever get around to painting the nursery?”

Gracia is entirely too grateful for the change in subject.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the filler. It's honestly mostly just foreshadowing and character development rather than plot advancement, but I hope it's alright. I think this is the most I’ve had to revise one of these so far. Four, five times? Six? This chapter just _would not cooperate_.
> 
> I was stuck for a week straight and only managed to slog through with the help of AmaLee's covers. Eventually I decided to _completely rewrite_ the previous two chapters, which helped _so damn much_. Not only do I like this chapter, but those last two as well. Now it actually _flows_ right. 
> 
> PS, hard same with Nina on the orange juice front, I have no idea how people can stand pulpy things. They drive me _crazy_.
> 
> As always, needed clarification or questions are available via commenting.
> 
> Sincerely,  
> The Immortal Moon


End file.
